Complete Me
by Elizabeth Tudor
Summary: Batman and Joker are something more than enemies, but as both wrestle with the reality and consequences of their decision, they have to wonder: how long can it last? Especially when fed-up exes get involved… Joker/Batman slash, non-graphic. T for swearing
1. Interested?

_**A/N:**_ _It's finally posted! Writing this has been pretty much the only thing that's kept me going the last few days, today especially. I woke up at five a.m. and found that an old scar had split open, covering my sheets in blood, and the day just got worse from there. Thank god for writing._

_Anyway, this is the pseudo-sequel to my Batman oneshot,_ **Rooftop Philosophy**_._ _It's not necessary to have read that one first, but it is recommended. Just so's to warn you,_ **THIS IS SLASH.**_ Don't like, don't read, simple as that. This story will be mostly_ _about the relationship between Batman and the Joker, so while there will be some fluff and some action, it isn't strictly either one of those. This is also my very first slash fic, and I'm still experimenting, so please, be gentle._

_This fic is dedicated to the memory of the amazing Heath Ledger, may he rest in well-deserved peace._

_Thanks for suffering through my novel of an author's note, I promise the next one will be shorter, I just needed to rant. Anyway, Read, Review, and please, above all, Enjoy!_

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I am flame and I am fire,  
I am destruction, decay, desire.  
I'll hurt you,  
I'll heal you,  
I'm your wish, your dream come true,  
And I am your darkest nightmare, too.  
I've shown you  
I own you.  
And though you made me, you can't change me -  
I'm the perfect stranger who knows you too well.

~ _I'm Alive,_ **Next to Normal**

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The strangest night of Bruce Wayne's life began when he brushed his teeth.

Well, it's wasn't actually nighttime, per se. It was close to five a.m. Not that he particularly cared about the technicalities at that point. It'd been a long day and an even longer night, and he was more than ready for some sleep. He finished up in the bathroom and shuffled back into the bedroom, with no other thoughts than collapsing into bed and sleeping for a good eight hours straight. As soon as his head hit the pillows though, he felt uncomfortable, the blankets too tight, too heavy, the cloth awkward against his skin. As he twisted and turned, trying to find a position that worked, the Joker's voice came floating into his head, as it had so often over the past weeks.

_Think of what we could do together. There's no fight we wouldn't win!_

Ever since he had spoken them, that night on the rooftop, the words had swirled around his head. At times, the idea seemed crazy, preposterous. Other times, like now, it seemed perfectly plausible, perfectly natural. It seemed like it could possibly work. Like it was _meant_ to work.

More than that though... in a way... he almost _wanted_ it to work. There was no doubt that he and the Joker were bound together somehow, and they would fight until they destroyed each other - unless they found another way. Unless they learned to work together. But that couldn't happen, they were on opposite sides of the board...

_You. Complete. __**Me**__._

Demented words from a deranged clown, accompanied by a mocking laughter track that kept playing through his head, no matter what he did...

Bruce groaned and rolled over, crushing a pillow over his head. He was exhausted, but he wasn't going to get much rest tonight.

"Get out of my head, Joker," he muttered.

"What, overstayed my welcome _already_?" a voice a few feet away asked. Bruce jumped. Even in the dark, he knew that voice.

The light flicked on. The Joker was seated not three feet from the edge of the bed, legs crossed, grinning under the scars, a knife in his hands.

Bruce slowly sat up, suddenly very aware of a number of highly unpleasant facts. First off, the Joker was here, in his bedroom, which meant that he knew who Batman really was, which was a disaster in itself. Second, the Joker had a knife, and looked more than ready to use it. Third, Alfred's room was right down the hall. As soon as he'd finished with Bruce, the make-up smeared clown would probably check the penthouse for anyone else. And last…Bruce was uncomfortably aware that he was on his back, in bed, completely unarmed, wearing absolutely nothing but a pair of black silk boxers. He groaned mentally. Of all the ways to die!

His martial arts training wouldn't be much use here. Whether by accident or design, the Joker had caught him in a position where he had absolutely no leverage. He might be able to get to the Joker, but he was half sitting, half lying down, it would take precious milliseconds to get upright, and the Joker was wicked fast with that knife...

Joker noticed his renewed concentration, and hazarded a guess at what Batsy was considering so intently. His eyes narrowed.

"Now now," he admonished, wagging the dagger far too close to the end of Bruce's nose for comfort, "I can't have ya trying anything, so be a good bat and lay back down, and maybe I won't need to, uh, hurt anyone."

Bruce did as he said, sinking slowly back into the pillows. What choice did he have?

"Now then," the Joker added, once he was satisfied his orders were being carried out, "when you were not out chasing after the local muck-raking lowlifes, did you, by chance, spare any thought for my, ah, _pppppproposition_?"

He drew the word out, making it sound as twisted and deformed as the scars across his cheeks, licking his lips at the end, as though tasting it. Even now, Bruce was equally fascinated and repulsed by him. There were bigger issues though.

"How did you find me?" he asked, his voice unconsciously taking on the roughness he always used when he was Batman.

"It wasn't that, ah, _difficult_," the Joker grinned. "Now that the _games_ are over and I needed to find you, you left me a pretty wide trail. Batman would have to be rich to have all the fun gadgets he keeps, and, as it turns out, _you_ are the only _billionaire_ in Gotham who is under forty, over six feet tall, and has brown eyes. Piece of cake. Ya might want to ah, cover your tracks a bit, Batsy."

Bruce groaned mentally again. _Nice to know where I went wrong before I die_, he thought sarcastically. He'd have to start taking steps to remain anonymous. _If_ he survived tonight…

"You're, uh, dodging my question though," the Joker declared, dragging his thoughts back to earth. "Did you or did you _not _think about what I told ya that night?"

He had thought about it plenty. No need to tell Joker _that_ though.

"Hadn't thought about it much," he said, as lightly as he could. The Joker's grin twisted into a scowl.

"You're, uh, _lying_ to me Batsy," he informed the billionaire. "I thought we were _friends_. If that's how you're going to play," he added, rising lightly to his feet, "I think we're going to have to take this _game_…outside," he finished, placing the purple-gloved fingertips of one hand against Bruce's chest.

Though normally the epitome of self-control, Bruce started. The Joker's hands were only a little warmer than he'd expected, but in spite of the relatively normal temperature, the points of contact on his chest burned like fire. He felt his face grow hot. _Damn subconscious reactions. _Of course it was going to be uncomfortable having your greatest enemy examine you like some rare antique he was thinking of stealing.

The Joker grinned. He _liked _seeing Bruce so uncomfortable. Every time Batman touched him – during the interrogation, during a fight, _any_ time – the sudden thrill of sensation made it difficult for him to even remember to keep breathing. He was more than happy to return the favor, with added interest.

He also had to admit that it was nice seeing his archrival out of the Batsuit. _Yes, __**very**__ nice,_ he mused, his dark eyes raking the form he'd only ever glimpsed under all the black Kevlar and spandex.

His eyes narrowed. Was Batsy _blushing_? Yes, definitely blushing. He smirked. If that was how he reacted to a little thing like _that_, well then…

Bruce gasped as the Joker's hand flattened and slid across his chest. His entire body was burning now, his nerve endings tingling like live wires. _Why_ was he acting like this? What happened to keeping a cool head?

His body answered for him, sending his pulse skyrocketing until his entire body pounded like a drum to his heartbeat. He groaned, aloud this time. Why _him_?

The Joker's grin widened. This was getting _exciting_. He'd been interested in Batman since he met the guy, but it had never even occurred to him that the caped crusader might be just as interested. Smirking, he increased the pressure. The result was instantaneous. Bruce gasped, and his entire body jerked as though electrocuted.

Ah. Almost certainly interested then.

"Twitchy little Bat, aren't you?" he grinned. Batman glared.

He was tempted to see just how _far_ he could take this little shindig, but something told him that if he tried anything too drastic, poor little Brucey would die of shock. Better to keep it simple for now. Might as well leave him with something to think about though…

He leaned over the bed, putting his face no more than an inch away from Bruce's. The unmasked superhero pressed himself back as far as he could, but he couldn't get away from the twisted, grinning scars.

For a moment the Joker stayed there, drinking in the sight of him. How often had he seen those eyes under the mask? They were stunning eyes, but much to better to see the rest of his lovely face too. He could have stayed there for hours, simply staring at Bruce, but there were other things that needed to be done.

He brought the knife up. Bruce's eyes widened slightly, despite his effort to remain in control. Dammit, it _was_ going to end then. Everything he'd worked for, undone by one stupid clown! Dammit dammit dammit...

He drew in his breath as the Joker placed the cold edge, almost lovingly, against his throat. For chrissakes, if he was going to kill him, then kill him already! His heart was pounding, fully expecting each breath to be his last, but he didn't look away from the crazed madman. If he was going to die tonight, he was determined that he would die well. The Joker leaned in even closer, _probably to savor all the fun little emotions,_ Bruce thought bitterly, remembering the GPD surveillance tapes. He expected at any moment to feel the sharp steel rip into his skin, slicing cleanly through his jugular and spilling his lifeblood out across the bedspread. What he did _not _expect was to feel the Joker's scarred lips press against his forehead.

The Joker drew back and grinned broadly. Bruce starred at him in shock. Before the young billionaire could react, the clown blew him a kiss and vanished into the shadows, his plum-colored coat swirling behind him. Seconds later, the only evidence that he had been there at all was Bruce's still-pounding heart and one of his trademark playing cards, laid almost lovingly on the pillow. Bruce picked it up cautiously.

_'See you soon, Bats'_

_The hell?_

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Do not put your faith  
In a cape and a hood,  
They will not protect you  
The way that they should.

_~ I Know Things Now,_ **Into the Woods**

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	2. Head Meets Desk

_**A/N:**_ _Here it is: chapter number two. And now, I have some people to thank. Thanks especially to -x-Bashli-x- for suggesting Hush as a villain I can use, I did some research and he's perfect for what I need! Many, many hugs and thanks for pointing him out. Thanks to Amanda Saitou and Kyubi-female for taking the time to review, I love you for it! Thanks to TamarackPines for sticking with this fic, and to SaJi for keeping me honest and pointing out a few errors. _:)

**SLASH: Don't like, don't read**

_Anyway, here it is: the next chapter of Bats/Joker. Read, Review, and Enjoy!_

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"The wages of sin is death but so is the salary of virtue, and at least the evil get to go home early on Fridays."

~ Terry Pratchett

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Bruce groaned again and banged his forehead onto the desk. He was supposed to be getting a start on the ever-increasing pile of paperwork, but all he could think about was the events of last night. Knocking his head felt so good that he did it again, and again. At least now he had a physical headache to match the mental one.

Why _the Joker_? Out of all the people in Gotham, why did it have to be the Joker? And why did he have to know who Bruce really was? And come to that, why didn't the freaking clown just kill him when he had the chance? Now that his rival knew Batman's secret identity, Bruce couldn't stop looking over his shoulder, checking to see if he was being followed. He knew it was pointless, knew that if the Joker really was after him he wouldn't know it until too late, but he couldn't help feeling paranoid. It was drilled into him.

And for that matter, what exactly _had_ happened last night? Was he going crazy, or was the Joker _flirting_ with him? Or was the clown just playing with him, like a cat toying with a neurotic and paranoid mouse? He groaned again and went back to banging his head. This was going to keep running through his head all day…

"I keep tellin' ya, you should never start with the head, darlin'," a purring voice behind him informed the aggravated businessman. Bruce turned around, at once apprehensive and irritated, frustration written all over his face. The Joker grinned at him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked the Joker. No point in mincing words; his head was pounding and he was fed up with the mind games. It was a mark of how disjointed his mind was at the moment that the Joker had come in without Bruce hearing him, which was itself a major problem. Good thing the clown didn't seem too keen on killing him immediately. _Still_, he reminded himself, _that could change at any second._

_Have to keep control, Bruce. Focus._

"Why so serious, Brucey?" the Clown Prince asked him, carefully drawing a switchblade from his vest pocket. "You should try having some…" he licked his red-smeared lips, "…fun."

"What are you doing here?" Bruce repeated. He was sick of games; he just wanted a straight answer for once, was that really too much to ask?

"I thought you could use some _company_," the Joker informed him lightly, slipping off the file cabinet he had been perched on. "Ya must get lonely, stuck in this rattrap all day, so I thought I would drop by and, ah, say hello."

"What the hell do you want?" Bruce asked flatly. The Joker pouted, an expression of mock hurt stealing over his face.

"Why Brucey, I thought we were doing so well," he sulked. "We were making some real… ah… _progress_ last night."

Bruce stiffened. That was it then. The Joker was _definitely_ flirting with him. Which he probably could have dealt with, if he hadn't been torn between the desire to either throw the demented clown out a window, his one rule be damned, or, insanely, flirt back and see what happened.

"Arggggghhhhhhhhhh," he growled, going back to banging his head on the desk. The Joker looked amused.

"I can't imagine how that helps, but as long as it makes ya feel better…" he smirked. Bruce threw him an annoyed glare.

"So where do we go from here?" he asked, pointedly ignoring the Joker and checking his desk drawers. Finding a weapon of some sort would be nice, but at the moment he would settle for Aspirin.

"_Weeeellllllllllll,_ that's up to you now, isn't it?" the Joker drawled from behind him. Giving up the search for drugs and weapons, Bruce slammed the drawer shut and turned to face him.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" he asked quietly, his hands unconsciously balling into fists. The Joker smirked again, his Chesire grin twisting up the sides of his face. He knew he could be the most aggravating person on the planet, but even so, it was always nice to have it confirmed. Good to know he was getting under Batsy's skin.

"Simple, really," he purred, resuming playing with his knife. "We both know by now how _I_ feel. _You're_ the, ah…variable, as the case may be. I've made my intentions clear. Now it's your turn. Quid pro quo, no?" He smiled.

Bruce was very tempted just to walk out of the office entirely. The Joker had just come straight out and told him that he was interested, and was now waiting for Bruce to tell him whether he felt the same way. How the hell could he answer when he didn't know that himself? It was _the Joker_. The most wanted man in Gotham! A psychotic villain who had killed dozens, if not hundreds of people! Even _thinking_ about discussing feelings with him was beyond insane.

At the same time, his words had a ring of truth to them. There was some kind of connection between them, a connection that went beyond simply villain and hero. As much as he hated to admit it, Bruce was drawn to him.

The Joker watched him. Indecision was written all over his face. He could just imagine the internal dialogue, Batsy arguing with himself, trying both to justify it and to talk himself out of it. It would have been extraordinarily amusing, if he hadn't been so impatient to hear the Batman's answer. Why couldn't he make up his mind, dammit, they both knew they were drawn to each other; what was so hard about that?

A long, tense moment later, Bruce exhaled and turned back to the clown. "I don't know," he said simply.

"Are ya _sure_?" the Joker purred, drawing closer. Before Bruce knew what was happening, the Joker was embracing him from behind, with his head nuzzled deep into the hollow of Bruce's neck. And damn…it felt _great_.

Jesus, he was tense, the Joker noticed. No wonder Batman was always so uptight. He'd have to work on fixing that.

"Are you _sure_ you don't know?" the Joker repeated, layering kisses up his neck and jaw line. It took all of Bruce's concentration to keep from groaning. It had been weeks since he'd had this kind of contact with anyone, and it felt _so good_…

"Well?" the Joker purred again, his breath hot on the distracted billionaire's ear.

Bruce's blood was pounding in his ears, and a burning wave of heat coursed through his body. He was extraordinarily aware of the Joker's arms draped across his chest, the man's breath on his ear, his own ragged breathing and pounding heart.

"Let me think about it," he mumbled. All he could think to do was buy some time away from the Joker's intoxicating presence, some time to consider things with a clear head…

"Oh, don't be like that," the Joker murmured, snuggling closer. "We both know ya want it." _Stupid, gorgeous, tempting Batsy, stop playing hard to get. The time for games is __**over**__. How do you know I'll want to keep playing, won't leave for a new game?_

"Please…" He was almost begging now. "Let me think about it."

The Joker growled low in his throat and seemed about to say something when someone knocked at the door. He instantly tensed, and growled into Bruce's ear, "Make sure ya _do_ think about it this time."

An instant later, he had vanished.

The door opened, and Lucius Fox stepped in.

"Mr. Wayne, I thought this might interest you…"

His voice trailed off as he caught sight of his employer, standing as though dazed in the middle of the office, the collar of his shirt lopsided and hair slightly mussed.

"Mr. Wayne?"

Seeming to snap out of it, Bruce groaned and buried his head in his hands.

"I'm going to take the day off," he said finally, voice slightly muffled. "I can't think straight."

"All right," Fox told him, noting how unsettled he seemed. "This'll wait. You look like you need one." A moment later, he had stepped out, leaving Bruce alone with his very confused thoughts.

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"One of the points about distractions is that everything that they do is destabilizing."

~Bruce Sterling

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_Love it? Hate it? Let me know. I'm a sucker for reviews of any kind._


	3. Serious

_**A/N: **__Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who left a review; they encourage me like nothing else._

_**SLASH: if you haven't figured that out by now, not much I can do for you.**_

_Cards on the table time though, and I've got a confession to make: not only is this my first slash fic ever - it's my first romance story ever, period. So I'm still kind of writing in the dark here, trying to figure out what works and what doesn't. And just a heads up: I'm still getting over the awkwardness of writing smut, so please bear with me when I leave it at suggestive instead of explicit. It's just not something I'm comfortable with. Other than that, enjoy this chapter! I've already got some of the next one written, so it should be up in just a few days._

_Read, Review, and Enjoy!_

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The hardest thing to learn in life is which bridge to cross and which to burn.

~David Russell

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"Let her go," Batman growled, cape rippling in the light wind. The Joker giggled, knife still pressed to the woman's throat.

"Well, Batty, have ya thought about it at all?" he laughed lightly, tapping his fingers along the edge of the knife. The woman sobbed in terror, and he clenched her wrists harder, drawing a whimper of pain.

"Let her go, and I'll tell you," Batman told him, keeping his eyes on Joker's captive. She was nearly incoherent with fear, and the source of that line of blood trickling from under her reddish hair couldn't be helping matters. He knew the Joker was just using her as bait for him, but what choice did he have except to answer the summons? If she didn't serve her purpose, Joker would kill her without a second thought.

"Now, that's not nice," Joker pouted. "Here I've laid all my cards on the table for ya, and you won't even tell me if you've _considered_ my offer."

His purple-gloved fingers clenched harder. If he pressed the blade even a hairsbreadth closer, he'd draw blood. Batman could think of only way to distract him.

"Why don't you let her go, and we'll talk it over?" he offered, drawing closer. The Joker watched him, eyes unfathomable. "We can talk it over when she's safe."

"Fine!" he snarled suddenly, shoving his bedraggled captive away from him. She cast him one last terrified look, eyes wide as a deer's, before stumbling down the alley, tripping over the piles of rotting garbage in her haste to escape.

Joker crossed his arms over his chest. One foot tapped impatiently.

"Well?"

"I've thought about it," Batman told him calmly.

"_Aaaaaaaaaand?"_

"I haven't decided," Bruce admitted, bracing himself for the storm that was sure to come.

"Well, when'll you have an answer?" Joker demanded, voice rising. This was going too far! He was just looking for one little yes or no, Batboy was dragging this out for far too long. If Bats was just stringing him along, playing with him…

"Soon," Batman told him, sensing his anger. "Soon. Just a little longer." He was no closer to knowing his own mind, but if he could just placate the Joker a for a little while more…

"Dawn, Brucey," the Joker told him, his voice oddly low. "I want an answer by _dawn_. I don't like_ being led on_." And before Batman could reply, he had disappeared as quickly as he had come.

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Bruce was pacing. It was nearing sunrise, and the Joker still hadn't shown up. He had thought things over, he had considered things from every angle, he had made his choice, and now he just wished that something would happen, that the Joker would show up so that he could act on it, before he could start reconsidering it _again._

The decision had been easier than he'd dared to hope, once he'd had time to get his thoughts back in order. It was just so damn hard to concentrate on anything when the Joker was around, and for something like this, he wanted to be sure his decision was his own, not something brought on by the Clown Prince's hideously distracting presence.

The Joker knew who he was. There was nothing that could be done about that. It meant though that there would be no escape for him; the Joker had tracked him down once, he could easily do it again. Running was never really an option.

Flight was out, so it was fight then, a confrontation of some kind. He could either agree to the Joker's terms and see where that took him, or he could refuse. If he refused, he didn't like the thought of what the Joker might do to him. He could probably fight – he had made sure he had several weapons around the bedroom for that very reason, if it came down to it – but…he didn't want to. He was tired of the endless loop of pointless battles they fought, battles neither of them ever really won, to be repeated in a matter of days or weeks, when the only way to define a victory from a loss was by the size of the body count. This might be way out of that vicious circle. As an added benefit, it would be a way to keep tabs on the city's greatest criminal, perhaps exercise some control over his murderous crime sprees, if Bruce played his cards right.

But…

Bruce had no interest in one-night stands. Nothing he hoped to accomplish in this mad gamble could be achieved in one night. If the Joker wanted this to happen, he had to be serious about it. It was probably a sign of impending insanity that he was even considering an honest, all-cards-on-the-table relationship with a psychopathic clown, but at the moment, he didn't care. He was done with running and agonizing and debating; he just wanted this _resolved_, one way or another.

He wished he could have talked to Alfred about it, but something had stopped him from telling his oldest friend.

_That might have been a mistake,_ he reflected. In all likelihood, the Joker would catch him unawares, and he would be tranquilized, tortured, and, in all probability, dead, before he or anyone else could do anything about it, and Alfred would be the next target.

The fact remained though that the clown had had several golden opportunities to kill him, and had done nothing about it. The fact remained that while Bruce had been threatened, flirted with, exasperated, kissed, and had a knife held to his throat, he hadn't actually been harmed. If Bruce had seriously thought that Alfred was in danger, he would have told him immediately, but he couldn't help but think that maybe the Joker really _was_ serious for once.

Now where was he?

"Now would be a good time to show up," he grumbled.

"And here I am," the voice that he had become very well acquainted with the past few days answered. He turned around. The Joker was lounging against one of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," Bruce muttered, rolling his eyes. Always with the theatrics. Although, considering Batman's taste for the dramatic, he supposed he probably shouldn't pass judgment too harshly.

"Ya wanted me, and here I am," the Joker repeated, watching him carefully. "Have you decided?" Normally he wouldn't bother letting his intended target choose, but since it _was_ Batman, his greatest rival, he felt some small courtesy was due. Even if the Bat refused, he could always come up with a new scheme. He was nothing if not persistent.

Joker truly hoped Bruce would agree. The thought of having someone else, someone he could be direct with, someone he could consider an equal, someone who could _know_ him, was intoxicating. And who could that be but Bats? Who could ever really know him but his other half?

Something dark ran through the core of both their beings, something that made them stronger, more dangerous, than anyone else. The Joker accepted it and used it, glorying in the chaos he reaped. Batman struggled against it, hiding behind a mask of justice but using it all the same. He tried to bury it, but it made him stand out. As soon as the Joker had come to Gotham, he'd known that the Batman would be a _real_ challenge, someone he wanted to fight against and compete with, someone he wanted to know. Someone like him. Even the thought was exhilarating. Someone like him…

But he would not, would _not_, be used. If Bruce Wayne was up for this, then it would be all or nothing. He refused to be put to the side like a toy a child no longer had a use for. That was the mistake Batman had made at first: ignoring him. Now that he finally had the Bat's full attention, he wouldn't give it up without a fight.

"I'll have decided as soon as _you_ answer one more question," Bruce told him.

"Shoot."

"How serious about this are you?" he asked quietly, praying that the Joker wouldn't laugh, he couldn't take it if he laughed right now…

He didn't.

"Brucey, life is one big joke. It never pays to take anything too seriously. But if there's one thing I'll _try_ to be serious about, it's this."

There was no trace of a lie in his face, but Bruce hesitated…

"Ya don't believe me," the Joker whispered. One of the few times he was being completely honest and Bats still didn't believe him.

He'd have to show him.

Bruce's eyes widened as the Joker kissed him. It was the first time he'd ever felt the other man's lips pressed against his. They were oddly warm, and surprisingly soft, but insistent. Intoxicating. Before he'd fully finished enjoying the sensation, the Joker pulled away, studying his face, gauging his reaction. Bruce wasn't ready for it to end yet, so he did the only thing he could. He kissed the Joker back.

Now it was the Joker's turn to be surprised. Looked like Batsy had made his choice, he reflected, but then Bruce deepened the kiss and all other thoughts went out of his head.

The Joker really was intoxicating, a living drug. He smelled of sweat and leather and gunpowder, his scent filling Bruce's nose as he deepened the kiss, gently exploring his rival's mouth, knowing that he was doing the same. The taste of the greasepaint was bitter on Bruce's tongue, but somehow, he didn't mind. It had been _so long_ since he'd allowed himself to let go and truly kiss someone, and it felt wonderful, even if it was the Joker. He needed this, needed some kind of connection to break the isolating wall around him, no matter who it was with.

The Joker wrapped his arms around Bruce, letting his hands slide across his shoulders, and even through his shirt Bruce could feel the heat of them, and the roughness of his palms. He pressed the kiss deeper still, wrapping his own arms around the demented clown. His questing tongue traced the inside of the Joker's cheek, and a shiver of fire shot through him. The scars extended to the inside of his mouth as well! Well, they had to, he supposed, but he had never really thought about it…then he noticed the tremor that had run through the Joker, and decided to try something…

He carefully pulled away just far enough to kiss along the Joker's jaw line, just below the paint. The Joker shivered again, and tilted his head, eyes completely shut. Bruce extended the kisses up to his ear before continuing down along the scar. A sharp intake of breath told him he'd guessed right. Smiling, he started gently kissing the line of twisted flesh. He reached the Joker's lips again, and would have continued up the other side, but the Joker had other ideas. Twisting his hands into the fabric of Bruce's shirt, he pulled the uncaped Batman into another deep, passionate kiss. Bruce smiled. He might be able to get used to this.

Instinct had taken over where minds left off and they were kissing frantically now, desperate for any kind of physical contact, hands tangled deep in each other's hair, crushed against each other. Bruce managed to unfasten his hands long enough to start pulling at the Joker's coat, and the harlequin shrugged it off, followed by his waistcoat, still not breaking the contact between their lips. Bruce felt his long fingers begin to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. He helped the Joker unfasten it, steering him towards the bed.

The Joker's shin brushed against the side of the king-sized bed, and he smirked. Well, if that was how Brucey wanted it, he had no objections…

Bruce pushed him onto the bed and pinned him there, straddling him, using his weight to press him down. The Joker arched briefly under him, then went limp. He was struck by the sudden thought that he had the Clown Prince who'd held Gotham in a reign of terror helpless, that he could do whatever he liked with the Joker; turn him over to the police, exact revenge for all the people he'd killed…

The Joker's system threatened to shut down from the sheer overload of sensation, of the feeling of Bruce against him, the smell of him, the _taste_ of him…it was all he could do to remember to keep breathing as Batsy pinned him to the bed. He arched against him, and they fit together perfectly, not a joint out of place or a gap between them. It was intoxicating, enough to send him over the edge…all his defenses were shattered in an instant; he was utterly powerless in his greatest enemy's hands. Bruce could have picked him up by the scruff of the neck and tossed him off a building, and he wouldn't have struggled.

Bruce _could_ have done anything he liked… but at that moment, even with the weight of Gotham still on his shoulders, all he wanted was to snog the Joker silly and finish undressing him. With a growl, he began the kiss again.

The Joker deepened it and guided his hands to his chest. The tie came off easily enough, and was tossed into a corner, but the buttons of the shirt gave Bruce some trouble. Frustrated, he sat up and began to struggle with them in earnest. Finally, he succeeded in pulling open the Joker's shirt, and got his first good look at the man.

He really was skinny, Bruce saw with surprise. The purple suits had always managed to give off an impression of power. But then, as he ran a hand over the smooth, pale stomach, he realized he was wrong. There was certainly muscle there, but rather than the well-defined body-builder muscles he had worked so hard to get, the Joker had the lithe, sinewy build of a gymnast. He wondered idly if he worked out at all. The thought of the Joker subscribing to a gym made him smile.

The Joker sat up and shifted so that he was sitting across Bruce's lap, and now it was Bruce who found himself being pushed back into the bed, the Joker pressed against him, layering kisses down his face and neck, and along his stomach. For a moment he simply gave himself up to the sensation. It had been so, so long since he'd felt anything like this before...

"What, had enough _already,_ Batsy?" the Joker whispered, and Bruce opened his eyes. No, he thought with a rare smile, not yet.

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A peacefulness follows any decision, even the wrong one.

~Rita Mae Brown

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	4. Rain and Revelations

_**A/N:**__ Argh. I tore out more hair over this chapter than any other. Quite apart from writing it, my computer's got an adware infection, so the bloody thing won't work right. Other than that...I'm actually rather pleased. This chapter was partially inspired by today, when we finally got rain after a month and a half of drought._

_Anyway, here it is, the fruit of my labor. Read, please Review, and Enjoy!_

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"God is in the rain."

~Evey, _V For Vendetta_

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Despite the Joker's claim that he really was…serious…Bruce had thought that once he had what he wanted, he would leave. So when he woke up the next morning, he was surprised to find the Clown Prince of Gotham curled, cat-like, in an armchair at the far end of his room, reading.

"Why are you still here?" he asked, and immediately regretted it. "I didn't mean to be rude, I just kind of thought… I assumed you wouldn't want to hang around."

The Joker stretched. "Good morning to you too."

In spite of himself, Bruce had to grin. "G'morning. Good to see you."

"Hate to answer a question with a question, Batsy, but…do ya _want_ me to leave?"

Bruce considered it a moment.

"No," he said finally. He didn't, really. It was strangely pleasant having him around. At least when he was here, Bruce knew he wasn't out causing chaos somewhere else.

"Then I stay," the Joker said simply. "For a little longer, anyway. I've got a few uh, _things_ that need seeing to."

Bruce was tempted to ask what kinds of things, but he didn't. No need to spoil this oddly peaceful moment. Not just yet. Instead he got up and started to get dressed. The Joker watched him curiously. For a few minutes, all was silent.

The Joker sat, simply drinking in the sight of him. Bruce, Batman, whoever he wanted to be, was here with him, wasn't trying to send him back to Arkham, wasn't mooning over the poor pitiful city, was just _his_. His Bat. Best of all, Bats _knew_ it, and accepted it. The thought sent a thrill of happiness through him.

"When can I, uh, come back?" he finally asked as Bruce pulled a shirt off the rack in the closet. "Tonight?"

Bruce considered. Batman hadn't done a very thorough job last night, so he should go out tonight. Still, that was no reason he couldn't see the Joker later, after he'd finished patrolling the city. Last night had been…well, amazing. Potential goals aside, he'd forgotten how wonderful it felt to fall asleep knowing there was someone else beside you, even if it was your arch nemesis. He had the nagging feeling that the bizarre relationship they had begun wouldn't, couldn't, last very long, but if that was the case, he was determined to embrace it while it did.

"Tonight, but late – after I've finished as Batman."

"Hmmm," the Joker mused, tapping his teeth with a fingernail. "That should work. Let me, uh, check on it, and I'll… let you know later."

"How?" Bruce asked skeptically. The Joker grinned.

"Leave that to me, Batty."

Bruce shrugged. If there was one thing he'd learned over the past few days, it was not to underestimate the Joker.

"Let me know, then. I do want to see you again, when we aren't…you know, beating the pulp out of each other." The Joker didn't reply. "Please?"

The Joker smirked. Batsy was so _cute_ when he was acting all hopeful, like now. He rose from the chair and padded lightly over to the half-dressed billionaire. Of course he would see Brucey again, but... he might as well keep him guessing. No point in letting this get _predictable_.

He kissed Bruce's cheek before breathing, "We'll see," into his ear. Bruce leaned forward, looking for more, but the Joker was already turning away. Retrieving his coat, he slipped out onto the balcony…and was gone.

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Bruce had a relatively good day at work. He and Lucius spent the morning perfecting the design for a new Bat car, and by lunchtime he'd decided he'd spend the afternoon finishing up the pile of paperwork he _still_ hadn't gotten to. Once that was done, he could call it quits and get ready for a night spent as both Batman and Bruce.

Over lunch though, he felt the doubt he'd been carefully suppressing creep in. The Joker still hadn't contacted him in any way. What if he called it off already? And even if he did decide to let Bruce know, _how_ would the clown get in touch with him?

When he got back to his office, he got his answer. Propped against his laptop was one of the signature Joker cards, a single word scrawled across it in purple ink. He picked it up carefully, then looked around. Whoever had left it was already gone. Smiling slightly, he leaned it against a stack of forms, where he could easily see it, and went back to work. Every now and then though, he would glance up, and his smile would broaden as he reread the card for the umpteenth time. The message was very simple, but it was enough to make a brief flash of unaccustomed happiness surge through Bruce every time he read it.

_Tonight_

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Bruce spent the rest of the day eagerly anticipating nightfall…until the weather report came on, informing everyone that a thunderstorm would be arriving in Gotham. Bruce hated rain. It made him feel depressed and irritable, and put a decent night's sleep beyond his reach. Even worse, a storm of the magnitude the weatherman predicted would make it impossible for him to go out as Batman tonight.

The weatherman had, for once, gotten his facts straight. The storm swept into Gotham just after nightfall, and it was a big one. Within minutes of starting, the rain was sheeting down in an almost solid deluge, beating itself against the windows of Bruce's bedroom as though it resented him for being safe inside. Long streaks of continuous white lightning lit the sky as bright as day, coming at almost the same time as the full-throated roar of thunder. Except for the lightning flashes, the sky outside was as black as the inside of a cave, and Bruce began to entertain the paranoid idea that the whole world outside this building had been swept away into the dark, carried off by rising floodwaters.

Bruce was really regretting telling the Joker to come late at night. Until he showed up, he was stuck with nothing to do but listen to the storm raging, growing steadily more restless, the sharp pinging of the raindrops drilling into his head. He supposed he _could_ wake Alfred, but it wouldn't be fair, the poor man got little enough sleep already, no need to wake him up just because he was feeling on edge.

He'd wait for the Joker then. Nothing else to do…

Bruce was just wondering how many hours it would be before the Joker showed up when he heard a rapping noise from the balcony. Behind the smeary glass, a blurred purple outline beckoned him over. Grinning broadly, he jumped up and unlocked the door.

The Joker stepped lightly in, shaking off the rainwater in a way that reminded Bruce of a wet dog. The green dye in his soaked hair had washed out in streaks, and the makeup across his face had smeared oddly in the rain, leaving him looking half-melted and even crazier than usual. Crazy or not, Bruce was glad to see him.

"Figured the Bat wouldn't be going out in this little shower," the Joker told him, shaking himself off again. "Hope I didn't, uh, _interrupt_ anything." His dark eyes wandered around the room before coming to rest on Bruce.

"I'm glad you came early," Bruce told him honestly. "I thought I'd go crazy if I had to listen to any more of this damn rain."

"You don't like storms?" the Joker asked, surprised. Bruce shook his head. The Joker stared at him.

"Well, why not?" the harlequin demanded. Bruce shrugged.

"I don't like rain. It's depressing, and it makes it harder for me when I'm Batman."

The Joker frowned. He loved storms, loved the sheer power and chaos of them, the awesome, terrifying beauty of nature throwing a temper tantrum. Lightning especially. He loved how it ripped through the night, raw edges tearing the sky apart in a split-second flash that could dazzle or destroy in equal measure. It was like the world's biggest bomb, a massive, stunning fireworks display that he could never hope to match, but damned if he wouldn't try. It annoyed him somehow that Bats couldn't see the splendor of it.

Well then, he'd _make_ him see.

"Watch," he told Bruce, before moving to the center of the room. Wait a moment to find the rhythm, the underlying beat that tied it all together...there!

His arms rose before sweeping back down even as the thunder outside cracked. They rose again, pausing for a moment, before crashing down with the sudden flare of lightning, one hand tapping along to the staccato beat of the raindrops.

Bruce watched him, fascinated. The Joker was conducting the storm! He flourished his arms, waving them, and on cue, the lightning blazed, followed by a drum roll of thunder. Another cymbal crash of lightning, another grand flourish…and under it all, the tambourine notes of the rain, tapping out a steady beat. It was oddly beautiful, chaotic, but with an underlying order to it: first lightning, then thunder, and, always, rain.

It was stunning. How had he never noticed before? His eyes fell on the Joker, still laughing as he conducted the stormy symphony. Every vein in his body pulsed with fire. At that moment, more than anything, he wanted to know the Joker as he had last night, wanted to show him how much he appreciated the gift of the storm, wanted to know that this was real...

The Joker grinned. He could see Bats beginning to think of it as music, not just an annoying noise. Caught up in his enthusiasm, his gestures became even grander, more sweeping. He was so focused on the strange music of the storm that he didn't even notice Bruce drawing closer until the unmasked Batman pulled him into a tight embrace, fastening hungrily on to his lips. For a moment he was startled, but then he realized what was happening and relaxed into the kiss, laying his hands on Bruce's chest. Bruce returned the favor, running his hands across the Joker's damp, warm back, trying to memorize every inch of skin there.

Where the night before they'd been gentle, testing each other, now they were rougher, urgent, desperately needing the feel of the other's skin against them. The Joker succeeded in pulling open Bruce's shirt and immediately buried his face in the billionaire's neck, hands skating over his chest.

Bruce groaned softly, smiling into the Joker's damp, green-tinged hair. This was how it was meant to be, and now, instead of being distracting, the noise of the rain in the background merely added to the sensation. Their own personal symphony…

He gasped slightly as the Joker's teeth appeared, grazing his jaw. It probably shouldn't have felt that good, couldn't be a good idea, but he was willing to ignore the voice of reason for now.

"Feel any better about storms, Brucey?" the Joker asked, tearing his lips away from Bruce's neck.

"I think I may be starting to come around," Bruce muttered. The Joker grinned before redoubling his attack on Bruce's jawline. Mission accomplished.

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Alfred knew how Bruce felt about rain, so a few hours into the storm, he took a bottle of Nyquil and headed down the hall. Maybe by now he'd be tired enough to admit that it was the only way he'd be getting any sleep. He rapped on the bedroom door, but got no answer. Master Wayne probably couldn't hear him over the storm. Or he might be in the bathroom. In that case, he'd just leave the Nyquil on the table…

He opened the door…and froze. From being around Bruce, he had gotten used to quite a few bizarre things, but this…

Master Wayne and…the Joker, of all people…were in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around each other. They were kissing, _quite_ passionately, and Master Wayne's shirt was already mostly off.

He was just considering that he should probably leave before they noticed him when Bruce looked up.

"Alfred!" he gasped, startled. Some of the Joker's paint had smeared across his face. The Joker turned to look too, his dark eyes wide.

For a long moment the three of them simply stood frozen.

"I'm hoping there's a reasonable explanation for this," Alfred said finally, "and I'd be interested in hearing it, in a few hours." He turned and left, taking the Nyquil with him. Evidently it wouldn't be needed tonight.

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"I know enough of the world now to have almost lost the capacity of being much surprised by anything."

~Charles Dickens, _David Copperfield_

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_Poor Alfred. I was going to break it to him gently, but crazy yaoi fangirl's suggestion was just too much fun to pass up. :)_


	5. It's Just A Game

_**A/N: **__Sorry this update took so so so so long. My life has become a steady downward spiral of sheer chaos. Since I haven't updated in so long, I tried to make this chapter a little longer. Just so's you know...I WILL NOT ABANDON THIS STORY. Updates will be slow, but they __**will**__ come._

_Might I take the opportunity to recommend you read the fic __**Can't Get You Out Of My Head**__ by the stunning J-Horror Girl, if you haven't already? It's one of the best Batman fics I've ever read, and I don't give praise like that lightly._

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"Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue, a wonderful living side by side can grow, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky."

~ Ranier Maria Rilke

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The Joker's henchclowns were frightened. The boss was in a good mood. When he was in a good mood, people died. Of course, when he was in a bad mood, people died too…really, there was no winning with him. You just had to keep your head down and hope he didn't notice you.

You may ask why any of them had chosen such a dangerous, thankless job. Some of the clowns had joined him because they were in trouble with the Falcones or the Russians, or, for a few, both. Some had joined simply for the hell of it. Others were in it for the money, or, irony of ironies, the _glory._

The newer recruits might entertain hopes of winning the boss's favor, of someday becoming his right-hand clown. The older clowns knew better. There was no promotion. There was no glory. There was only trying to stay on his good side, or failing that, out of the way. The most a henchclown could hope for was not to get killed, and if he did, at least not in a particularly horrible, painful fashion.

Leaving wasn't an option either. One clown, Mopey, had tried it once. Just once. The memory of what the Joker had done to him still made the henchclowns who'd been around long enough to remember it shudder. They were battle-hardened criminals, all. They had seen death and torture and worse. But _nothing_ prepared you for the Joker's warped creativity when it came to dishing out punishments. They probably could have dealt with the way he had used the cheese grater… if he hadn't followed it up with the teaspoon thing. That was just _nasty_.

And now he was in a good mood. And, even scarier…_no one was dying_. He was walking with a spring in his step, damn, he was practically _whistling_, and not a single henchclown had been killed in the past two days. It had to be a record. And that just made it all the more terrifying. When he finally did crack, they were certain, the carnage would be the bloodiest yet. Whenever he walked into a room, the smarter of the clowns started backing furtively towards the nearest exit, or ducking behind the other clowns, trying to stay out of his line of sight. It didn't pay to attract the Joker's attention, for any reason at all.

The aforementioned Joker smirked as he strode into the abandoned warehouse serving as headquarters. As soon as he appeared now, most of the henchclowns seemed to melt out of sight behind their slower associates. They didn't know what was going on, and it scared them, even more than his normal murderous outbursts did.

Good. Let them stay confused and frightened. When they were scared, they were obedient. If they started getting over their fear, though…well, he'd heard of a few good magic tricks involving scotch tape and kazoos, and he was just _dying_ to try them out.

No time now though. Give the clowns the orders and get going, Brucey is waiting, the clowns aren't important now…

"Well boys, it seems that it's time to make a, uh, _grocery run_. All the usual, plus a few… _special_ items. List's on the table, be back soon, play nice with the other kids, blah blah blah. And make _sure_ ya get plenty of gasoline this time, or I'll make ya drink it!" He would, too. He didn't make idle threats. Ever.

"Sure thing, boss!" one of the newest recruits called enthusiastically. The Joker gritted his teeth. _Note to self: next time you show up at headquarters, remember to invite Drippy to participate in a little…show. And make sure you bring enough tape, it doesn't work without the tape…_

"Well, what are ya waitin' for, the roof to fall in? Get moving!" he snapped. The clowns scattered, glad for an excuse to be away from their psychotic employer. As soon as they were gone, he allowed a wicked smile to spread across his scarred face. There. That would take care of them for a while. Now he was free to head uptown. A certain Bat he knew of could use a little exercise.

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In the end, Alfred took the news better than Bruce had hoped. He had remained quite calm throughout Bruce's embarrassed, half-hearted explanation. Bruce was pretty certain that Alfred thought he was being even more of an idiot than usual, but he had refrained from actually saying so, for which Bruce was grateful.

Bruce had it right. Alfred _did_ think that having a romantic affair with a psychopathic killer clown was high on the list of worst ideas he'd ever heard, but he'd resolved not to say anything. Don't interfere, it won't get you anywhere. Let Bruce work this out on his own. Just be there, be supportive, and try to keep an eye on the Joker.

Speaking of said clown…

He must've known Bruce's schedule somehow, because he showed up soon after Bruce had finished explaining – somewhere about an hour after he got home from the office. Alfred carefully excused himself. Bruce seemed to trust that the Joker wouldn't try to kill them, but Alfred still preferred not to be in the same vicinity if he could help it.

Bruce smiled slightly as the Joker slipped in, his purple coat over one arm, and crossed the room towards Bruce. Alfred vanished through the far door.

"It's good to see you," Bruce told him. He meant it too. He had surprised himself by realizing he really did look forward to seeing the Joker now.

The Joker grinned at him.

"How'd he take it?" he muttered under his breath, nodding at the door Alfred had gone through.

"Pretty well, actually," Bruce muttered back. "I'm fairly sure he thinks I'm crazy, but if he does, he's not saying anything about it."

"_Good_," the Joker breathed, slipping his arm around Bruce and leaning in to kiss him. Nice to know that that little problem had been more or less resolved…

When the old man had walked in on them, the Joker's first thought had been to kill him. Serve him right for interrupting the Joker's precious time with his Batsy. He was glad now though that he hadn't. Bruce seemed oddly fond of him. If the Joker _had_ killed him, Brucey probably would've never spoken to him again. Even worse, he might've started moping and taken off for Tibet or Thailand or something, and then where would the Joker be? He couldn't very well go chasing all over the Orient after him, but he didn't want to lose Batty either, not when things were going so _well_.

His life, he realized, was quickly becoming focused around these scenes with Brucey. The rest of the time became strung-together details, things he could tune out, as long as he could be sure he would see Bats again. He recognized the symptoms. He was turning into an addict.

_This is dangerous, even for you, _his mind reminded him_. Don't let the addiction get out of hand, don't let it control you, make sure you can pull away…_

Then Bruce pulled him into another long kiss, and all thoughts of self-control went out the window.

_Oh, what the hell_, he thought gleefully, deepening the kiss. _Feed the addiction._

Several minutes and a few more kisses later, Bruce reluctantly pulled away.

"I've got to finish a report," he said in response to the Joker's questioning look. He'd left work in a hurry, he should have just finished it there… "My friend needs it by the end of the day. It should only take a few minutes. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable…preferably without destroying the place," he quickly amended. The Joker smirked.

"No guarantees, Bats," he said, lips twitching, before wandering off. Bruce frowned, unsure whether or not he was joking. Either way, he'd better finish that e-mail soon.

Within minutes, he'd completed the final draft and sent it off to Lucius. There. Done. Now he could devote his full attention to the intriguing problem that was the Joker.

Bruce logged off his computer and went to look for him.

The Joker was sprawled across the couch, his eyes closed, but he wasn't asleep. His muscles were too tense for him to be asleep.

"What're you doing?" Bruce asked, leaning over. It didn't seem like the Joker would be one to sit still for long.

The Joker opened his eyes. "Waiting for you to realize that the, uh, most wanted man in Gotham is sitting on your couch," he admitted. The Batman's civic pride was sure to kick in sometime; he might as well just get it over with.

Bruce frowned. For some reason, the thought didn't bother him as much as it probably should have.

"Well," he reasoned slowly, "that _would_ be a problem…if he wasn't sharing the couch with the second most wanted man in Gotham," he finished, sitting down. The Joker stared at him, incredulous. He smiled.

"If the most wanted is there because the second most wanted invited him, then I don't think it'll matter," he said softly. "Not at the moment, anyhow."

Really, he realized with a slight jolt, they were far more alike than he cared to admit. Both were men in costume who were wanted for murder. Both were considered thoroughly insane. Both were a threat to Gotham, and would be treated as such…in fact, as far as the public knew, they were mirror images. A pair of terrorists. As far as they were concerned, Batman had given up the only thing separating him from the bad guys when he supposedly killed those cops.

Well, he thought with some defiance, if he was going to be considered on level with the Joker, he might as well get some benefit from it.

"Yeah, I really don't think it'll matter much."

"Well," the Joker smirked, "as long as _you're_ sure…"

Burning with curiosity about each other, they began playing a game well-known to anyone who has ever been on a blind date: the Question Game. Within a few minutes of beginning, Bruce had learned that the Joker liked Stephen King books and disliked tabloids and coffee. The Joker found out that Bruce _did_ like coffee, and that he avoided skiing whenever possible, having broken his leg at it when he was sixteen.

"What're you most afraid of?" Bruce asked eventually. Joker shrugged.

"Not much."

"There has to be something," Bruce muttered, frowning slightly. "Everyone's got some stupid fear. Clowns or something…"

Joker laughed roughly.

"No, I am not afraid of _clowns_, Brucey. If I was, then dressin' up as one might be just a _little_ weird, don't ya think? Just a _little_ bit of a, uh, contradiction. Like Batman bein' afraid of _bats_ or somethin'!"

Bruce was silent.

Joker's eyes widened.

"You're not serious…_shit_! The Batman's afraid of bats!"

Bruce scowled as the Joker fell over, howling with laughter.

Perhaps strangely, perhaps not, both of them stuck to personal questions. Without a word being spoken, they sensed that it might be a good idea for Batman and his nemesis to remain on the streets of Gotham.

The rest of the evening went by quickly. Long before they finished getting used to each other's company, night had fallen, and it was time for Batman to take to the city.

Bruce had known when he began his relationship with the Joker that they were supposed to be enemies. He knew that, and accepted it. But he always saw things differently when he put on the mask, and it was only as he was laying out his equipment that the full impact of the last few days struck him. He was dating the Joker. Batman. Was. Dating. The. Joker.

How in _hell_ could he have possibly thought that would _work_, on any level? He was supposed to be _guarding_ the city, and the Joker was trying to tear it down. What was he _thinking_?

Noticing how still he had suddenly become, the Joker frowned slightly.

"Having a few…issues, Bats?" he asked, raising one eyebrow. Bruce ran a hand through his hair.

"How can this work?" he asked, frustrated. The Joker stared blankly at him. He sighed and went on. "I just don't see how this can work. It's fine when we're here, but once we leave we're Batman and Joker again, and I can't just let you destroy the city…"

_Dammit,_ the Joker thought. He was going to start getting _moral._ And if he worked himself up into an ethical fervor, then he'd probably reconsider the whole dating-his-supervillain thing. And Joker was not willing to give up his newest game just yet.

Only one thing for it then. He'd been hoping it wouldn't come down to this; it would ruin _so much_ of his fun. Still, as long as it kept Bats from leaving, the rest could be negotiated.

Joker leaned up to kiss him. "You know, you can be kinda thick sometimes. Why do you think the Joker did what he did?"

"Because he enjoyed watching the city tear itself apart?" Bruce hazarded impatiently. Was there a point to this?

"Well yeah, there was _that_," the Joker admitted. "Mostly though, because the Batman was, uh, was _ignoring_ him. Batman refused to pay attention, so the Joker started blowing things up to _make_ him pay attention. Now that the Joker _has_ his full, undivided attention," he finished, grinning, "he doesn't need to set _quite_ so many explosions, does he? Provided, of course, that the _incorruptible_ Batman doesn't mind striking deals with criminal _lowlifes_."

Bruce listened warily as Joker outlined his idea. It would be, essentially, a truce. The Joker would try to avoid any actual _killing_ while he was causing chaos, and in return, Batman would stop trying to send him to Arkham.

_It could work_, Bruce reasoned slowly. As long as he didn't have to worry about stopping the Joker, he would be free to continue wiping out the rest of the city's crime. He'd still need to keep an eye on him, of course, but it would be easy enough to check whether or not he was keeping his side of the deal…

"All right," he said finally. The Joker's eyebrows rose.

" 'All right'?" he repeated. "Batman is actually agreeing to let a villain run wild around his _precious _city?"

"Only as long as you keep your half of the bargain," Bruce told him, suddenly uncomfortable. The Joker's ever-present grin stretched.

"Well, let's go see, hmm?" he offered gleefully. Batman's stomach sank.

"No need to start _tonight_, you deserve a night off…"

"Not a chance, Brucey," Joker told him firmly, pulling on his violet coat. "Let's go."

Bruce groaned.

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They met hours later, on a deserted rooftop. They'd been keeping tabs on each other as they traveled the city on their respective missions, coming close to each other several times but never meeting, in a long, strange parody of a dance. Now, it had finally reached its conclusion.

"Well, this has been, uh, quite a night," the Joker commented. "Should I pack my bags, or are you satisfied that I'll keep my half of the… _deal_?"

"I am, for now," Batman growled. The Joker shivered pleasantly. That voice had haunted him for months…and now he had finally heard the Bat's other voice as well. Perfect opposites, perfect reflections…just like them.

He was struck by the sudden urge to _run_, as hard and as fast as he could, because he could, knowing all the while Batman was right behind him. Just like it always would be. Like it was meant to be. He grinned. Batman tensed.

"Catch me if ya can, Bats!" he called gleefully, and took off. With a growl, Batman sprang after him.

Chimneys and TV antennae whipped past him on either side as he ran, glorying in the speed and strength of his limbs, exulting in hearing Batman behind him, matching him pace for pace, breath for breath. A six-foot gap rose up suddenly before him, and he jumped it without hesitation, up and running again within a heartbeat of landing. The soft flare of unfurled wings echoed behind him, and he smiled, the high wind that streamed past his face forcing his laughter back down his throat. Bats would never give up so easily.

They were halfway across the city before Batman finally caught up, jerking him roughly to a stop. The Joker laughed insanely. Batman frowned and tightened his hold. He was vaguely aware that his grip was too tight, that he'd leave a bruise on the Joker's arm, but it hardly registered. He just knew that he wanted the damned clown to _stop laughing_, stop treating everything like it was some big joke. He could think of only one way to shut him up…

The Joker tensed, then pulled Batman deeper into the strange rooftop kiss, every muscle in his body as tight as a spring. He was gripping the Bat's arms too now, so tightly he was sure he'd leave marks, and Batman hadn't given up his death hold on his arm, but Bats was kissing him back, a dark, rough, intense, intoxicating kiss, and he didn't care.

Even days later, Bruce would never remember exactly how they made it back to the penthouse. In his mind, the entire trip was just a confusing, exhilarating crush of rain-scented darkness and easy, powerful speed, all of it with a dazzling purple figure next to him. His first clear memory from the time of the kiss onward would be stumbling from the balcony into his own bedroom, the same way the Joker had come the night before. Surrounded by the familiar scene, some of the drifting pieces of his mind snapped back into place. He remembered who he was and who he was with. He remembered his responsibilities to the city. And he remembered what it was he wanted to do, had wanted to do for days…and now, blood still pounding from their flight across the city, had the boldness to do…

Suddenly over-hot, he tugged off the cape and the mask, laying them on a chair with his gloves. That was better.

"Oooh, stripping already?" the Joker laughed, cackling insanely. Everything was just so damn _funny_ right now…

Batman shook his head. "Not quite. Come on," he said, pulling the still-giggling Joker after him into the bathroom. He took a washcloth from the towel rack and ran some water over it, before wringing it out and bringing it carefully up to the Joker's cheek.

The Joker put up a hand to stop him.

"Nope. _Not_ gonna happen, Bats."

"I want to see your face," Bruce protested. Was that too much to ask?

"This _is_ my face," he insisted. "The, uh, paint… it is me."

"Bruce isn't always Batman," Bruce told him, more confidently than he felt. "There's someone else under the paint too. _You've _seen both of _my_ faces. I want to see both of yours."

The Joker made a movement halfway between a shrug and a nod. It wasn't exactly an invitation to continue, but it wasn't a refusal either. Bruce decided to try again.

Joker made no move to either help or hinder as Bruce raised the cloth and wiped at the thickly caked paint. Slowly, bit by bit, his other face emerged.

Bruce was struck by just how oddly beautiful he was. Once the dark paint was wiped away from his eyes, they looked closer to brown than black, and in the absence of the thick white makeup, the harsh angles of his face softened and rounded. One thing he hadn't expected though was the scars.

Bruce had always assumed that the scarlet paint was there to accent them. Certainly they were almost impossible to miss. Now, though, he realized that the makeup concealed them as well. Freed from the thick coat of red greasepaint, they stood out in even greater contrast to his pale skin, twisted, pitted, and deformed like nothing he had ever seen. He could see the uneven marks where someone – maybe the Joker himself? – had tried unsuccessfully to stitch them up, and the angry, puckered scar tissue where the skin had never really healed.

In spite of that…god, he was gorgeous. The spray-on green hair dye had come away in streaks, leaving his face framed by slightly damp green-blond curls. He looked oddly young. Bruce had never really considered how old he was, but now, after seeing his face free from paint for the first time, he definitely couldn't be older than twenty-eight or so - maybe just a few years younger than Bruce?

"It's _rude_ to stare ya know," Joker told him, but his own eyes were fastened to Bruce's face.

Bruce put the cloth down and reached out slowly, as though trying not to startle him. The Joker didn't move, and Bruce's hands settled on either side of his neck, cupping his face. Joker closed his eyes. Bruce's hands were surprisingly warm against his chin, and while he knew that while he was in a vulnerable position, and Batman could snap his neck as easily as breathing, he also knew that Bats never would. It was more than that though… He wasn't just _not in danger_… here, with Bruce's rough palms held gently against his cheeks, he was _safe._

He leaned forward, and, for the first time, they kissed without the makeup between them. It was definitely better without the paint, Bruce decided dazedly. He'd have to start insisting on that.

Joker wrapped his hands around Bruce's shoulders, pulling him forward, making the kiss as hard and demanding as he himself was. Two could play that game though, and Bruce pulled him closer still till they were chest to chest, his fingers tangled in the other's hair.

The Joker's slim fingers traced down his chest, searching for something. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't find it.

Bruce looked at him questioningly as he pulled away, dark eyes surprisingly thoughtful.

"Hey, uh, Brucey?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"How d'you get the Batsuit off?"

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When they began again, Bruce having struggled out of the spandex and Kevlar body armor, they were slower, savoring every moment of it, focused on exploring and experiencing, not dominating. The Joker's hands ran down his spine, and Bruce shivered. He responded by trailing his fingers down to the Joker's narrow hips. He moaned softly, and Bruce smiled.

It still surprised him somehow that the Joker responded to his touch. His every reaction was new, and so _different_ from a woman's; the two experiences couldn't be compared.

And nothing would _ever_ get him admit it, but he knew which one he preferred.

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Hours later, Bruce woke up with a start. He'd been having a strange dream…

His eyes fell on the still-sleeping Joker, and he calmed slightly. God only knew why he felt better when the Joker was around, but he did.

He looked nothing like the Joker now, though. With his face free of paint and relaxed in sleep, he just looked like an ordinary person, albeit one who had suffered some terrible scars. Still asleep, he shifted and licked his lips, the cuts twisting as he frowned slightly.

Fascinated in spite of himself, Bruce leaned over for a closer look. Joker really seemed to be asleep… Without any conscious thought, he reached out and touched his right cheek, feeling the warped tissue ripple under his light touch. He ran a single finger gently down his other cheek, and even asleep, the Joker reacted to his caress, murmuring something and shifting closer. Bruce withdrew his hand, but didn't take his eyes off the Joker's scars.

One side was a long, clean cut that extended almost from mouth to ear. The other was a crudely hacked, jagged mess. How had he gotten them? Who had hewed into his cheeks like that, leaving those thick scars behind? Every time the Joker told the story of how he got them, it changed. Sometimes he got them from his father, or a mob boss, or an ex-girlfriend, or himself. Sometimes it was done with a razor, or a piece of glass, or a knife. Every time, the story was different, till the truth was as tangled and twisted as his own string of heinous, monstrous crimes, and just as difficult to track.

Still, it was hard to reconcile the man sleeping beside him, tangled blond hair falling into his closed eyes and face scrunched (maybe a bad dream? what _did_ he dream about, anyway?), with the inhuman, murdering monster he'd fought throughout the length and breadth of Gotham. So hard to believe that they were one and the same. He'd promised not to kill anymore…maybe he had changed. Maybe Bruce really could trust him.

_What about __**Rachel**__?_ a small voice in his head asked angrily. _He killed her, you know!_

_Rachel._ Ouch.

That thought hurt. These past few days, he had finally managed to leave behind some small part of the grief and agony that had haunted him for months. He was no fool. He knew why. But he also knew that the man now sleeping beside him was responsible for her cold-blooded murder. How could he reconcile the part of him that screamed for revenge with the part that was content to kiss the Joker and ignore the rest of the world?

Most of the city now believed Batman to be a serial killer, Bruce reflected. Appearances were deceiving. Maybe in this case as well. He couldn't see where there could possibly be any mitigating circumstances in Rachel's murder, but he at least owed it to the Joker to ask him about it first, before jumping to conclusions. Yes. He'd do that tomorrow. Heart considerably lighter, he turned over. In doing so though, he woke the Joker.

"Huh? Wassup?" he asked muzzily, blinking away sleep.

"Nothing," Bruce told him. "Go back to sleep."

"Well, if I'm already up…" he yawned, stretching. Bruce shook his head, but he was smiling. They might as well make use of what time they had.

So they talked. The room was dark around them, and it made it easier to keep the rest of the world at bay, to imagine that it would always be like this. Safe for the moment in the tight cocoon of words, they talked about the little things, stupid, pointless things. They both knew that this stolen moment of safety and peace would end soon enough, but no need to mention that right now; no need to let the world back in any sooner than they had to. Better to keep talking, adding another layer of warm words to the wall around them.

"What's your favorite music group?" Bruce asked eventually.

He was expecting the answer to be a group he'd never heard of, or a heavy metal band he didn't listen to, so he was surprised when the Joker told him, very casually, "The Beatles."

"_Seriously?_"

"Would you stop usin' that word?" the Joker groaned. "I try not to take _anything_ seriously."

"Um…honestly, then?"

"Yeah," he replied, smiling. "That'll work. The Beatles are, _honestly_, my, uh, favorite band."

Bruce stared at him, at a loss. "Why?" he asked finally.

"Tell me, Brucey…have you ever _really_ listened to 'I am the Walrus?'"

"No," Bruce admitted. The Joker leaned back on his elbows, smiling.

"Try it. You might be a little _surprised_, what ya find."

"Hidden messages in British Invasion music aside…" he said dryly.

The Joker considered something for a moment, mutilated lips pursed.

"What's your favorite ice cream?" he asked finally. Bruce smiled slightly.

"Coffee, definitely."

The Joker pulled a face.

"I dunno how you can drink that stuff, much less ruin good ice cream with it," he muttered.

Bruce's smile broadened. He was feeling…adventurous.

"What's your name?" he asked softly.

The man beside him might have turned to stone.

"The Joker," he finally replied. "That's my name."

"Your _real_ name," Bruce insisted. He wanted something to call him, something more personal than just 'the Joker.' Two days ago, he wouldn't have cared, but now…something had changed.

Joker half smirked.

"My, uh, _real_ name got lost a long time ago."

"What did your parents call you?" Bruce insisted. "You _must_ have a name besides Joker."

"_Must_ I?" he asked, one blond eyebrow slowly rising. "And whatever my parents called me, it wasn't my _real_ name. Freak, kid, little bastard…feel free to take your pick, Bats."

"What did your friends call you then?" Bruce asked stubbornly.

"Who said I had any?"

"Well, what can _I _call you?"

"The Joker."

Bruce groaned. Joker wasn't going to give him a straight answer. He asked a new question instead, one the Joker answered more or less honestly, but his heart wasn't in it anymore. Something had gone out of the game when he realized that the Joker would go on keeping things from him. Their temporary refuge was punctured, and the world was creeping back in.

The Joker embraced him, searching for a kiss, and Bruce hugged him back, but whatever had gone out of the game had gone out of the romance too.

It _seemed_ natural, but the Joker sensed some reservation. Bruce wasn't being completely open. He was keeping something back. Joker kissed him, trying to get him to stop playing games, to just relax into the embrace, but the slight hesitation was still there, and remained there. The strange wall of silence that had crept between them refused to be broken for the rest of the night.

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An hour later, Bruce was asleep again. The Joker watched him curiously. He was used to getting what he wanted, and used to being able to convince or force people to do what he needed them to. People were just so easy to read, their every thought flashing across their faces like a goddamn television. It was child's play to give their minds just a little twist in the right direction…

But not Bruce. He was never completely sure what Bruce was thinking or feeling. It was as though he had the Batman mask on all the time, hiding from even the Joker's keen eyes. And even now, Bruce still insisted on secrecy, still wouldn't trust him…

The Joker tilted his head, a new thought occurring to him. He already knew that he wanted this relationship to be different, special. With someone like Batman, it _had_ to be special. Most of the relationships he'd had had been brief, and, to put it kindly, strange. He wasn't exactly the city's leading expert on romantic life. But from what he'd heard, it needed effort from both sides to work out.

Maybe… he couldn't just _take_ this time around, but had to give something back as well. Maybe he couldn't have it all his own way, would have to play by some of Batsy's rules instead. Time to continue their game.

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When Bruce woke up the next morning, it was to find the Joker gone and a single playing card left on his bedside table. On it, in crabbed purple script, was written

_Jack_

_What annoys you most? (Besides crime & clowns.)_

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"Once you gave a thing a name, you gave it life."

~ Terry Pratchett

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	6. Coffee, Chaos, & Gnomes

_**A/N: **__Another chapter up, another sleepless night. : ) The school play's started, so between that, midterms, work, and family issues, I have exactly enough time to either sleep or write. I'm pretty much operating on a constant caffeine drip right now just to function, but guess what I'm going to end up doing anyway? Writing, you will be the death of me._

_On a rather more cheerful note: when I posted this story, I was fully expecting to get a pretty cold response. I've never been happier to be proven wrong, and a huge thank-you to everyone who's helped point out my error. You guys rock my world._

_BTW…special thanks to xtorchiesx for info on Barbara. It helped a lot! Kudos also to necro omen13 for picking up on my wink and a nod towards Silence of the Lambs. There are more references if you can be bothered to look for them!_

_'Nuff babbling. Read, Review, and Enjoy!_

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"Coffee is a way of stealing time that should by rights belong to your older self."

~ Terry Pratchett

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Lucius raised his eyebrows. This was a strange sight. Bruce Wayne, while never exactly cheerful lately, always made an effort to appear so, but to see him come to work grinning from ear to ear had to be a first.

"What's happened that's made you so happy?"

Bruce shuffled his papers. "Ermmm…I had a really good night?" he suggested hopefully. If only he could stop grinning like an idiot…

Lucius's gray eyebrows rose higher.

"Well, if it was that good a night..."

"Lucius!"

"What?" he asked, and now he was smiling. "I'm just kidding. If you've found a girl, one you actually like, I'm happy for you, I really am."

"Yeah, I guess you could say I have," Bruce told him after a moment of thought. It was the closest he could get to the truth, at any rate. "And, _incredibly_, I think it might actually work out."

"Good," Lucius told him, still smiling. "I hope it goes well."

"Thanks," Bruce said softly. He did too.

Lucius brought him back to earth.

"I finished the newest designs for the car, if you wanted to take a look…"

As he started on the day's work though, Bruce couldn't help feeling ridiculously happy. His new lover wasn't just 'the Joker' now, a badly done portrait in white and red. He had a real face, and a real name to go with it. He still didn't know anything about him, but it was a step in the right direction.

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When the Joker sauntered in that night, Bruce was waiting for him.

"Jack," he said, affection apparent in his voice. It was wonderful to finally have a name, a real, human name, to use in place of a description.

Joker's eyebrows rose.

"_Jack_…" he mused. "Guess I need to get used to answering to that again, huh?"

He'd been trying to get _rid_ of the person Jack had been, and he had mostly succeeded in burying him under layer after layer of white paint. Jack was gone, the Joker was left. He'd personally erased most of the files on who he had been, and that name had almost ceased to mean anything to him. God only knew why he'd given it to Bruce…except that when he said it, it sounded almost…_right_. It seemed to _fit_, as it never had before. Bruce had a way of breaking through his defenses without even trying, and it might have annoyed him if he didn't like it so much.

Very well. For Bruce, he'd be Jack. For the rest of the world, he was still the Joker.

Speaking of erasing files though… he should probably finish deleting what scant files the police had on him. There was no way they could catch him from the bare bones of facts they had gathered, but no point in giving them any advantages, however slight. If they _did_ eventually get enough to catch him without the Bat's help, he'd get sent back to Arkham in two flicks of a knife, and he had no intention of _ever_ setting foot there again. Once was _plenty_.

No no no, there was no way was he going back to Arkham. It was so numbingly, mind-breakingly _boring_. Nothing but perfectly spic-and-span white rooms (even worse than black, white was, hadn't these people ever heard of _color_?), food that could double as building materials, and depressingly safe plastic spoons that, no matter _what_ your mother said, could not, in fact, be used to put someone's eye out. It almost made him want to go _insane_.

No, much better if he was off the records entirely. Life was so much _easier_ when you didn't exist.

"I'm guessing it's not a name you use often?" Bruce asked, breaking him out of his musings.

"Hmm?"

"Jack. No one calls you that?"

"Nah. My name got lost somewhere 'round the time my birthday did," he said without thinking, still lost in thoughts of hacking the police files.

Bruce wasn't sure whether to laugh or not.

"You mean… you don't know how old you are?"

Joker shrugged, realizing his mistake. _Dammit, Jacky-boy, concentrate, can't go giving too much away now…_

"Twenty-six, twenty-seven, mebbe twenty-eight…somewhere 'round there. Never really _needed _to keep track. I, ah, lost count a while ago."

Most everything in his past was a blur. A few things stood out painfully sharp, but mostly, it was just a bunch of disconnected bits and pieces. He got the feeling that it was probably better that way. Most of the bits and pieces weren't pleasant.

Bruce was nonplussed. He had known that unraveling the Joker would be a challenge, but he hadn't expected anything like this. Jack honestly couldn't remember how old he was? Did he remember _anything_ from before he was the Joker? And even if he did, would he want to tell Bruce?

_Well, you're only a few days into this,_ he reminded himself. _You'll get there eventually. Give him time._

The overworked, underused voice of reason was right. It was too early to worry about something like that. Even in a normal relationship, things took time, and this was nothing even approaching a normal relationship. He'd wait and see.

For now though, he thought, pulling Jack into a kiss, he would just enjoy it.

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Over the next week or so, they developed something of a routine. When Bruce got back from work, Jack would be waiting for him, and they'd spend the early evening together before going out into the city as Batman and the Joker. Once their nighttime jaunts were done, they'd return to the penthouse for a few hours' sleep before Bruce had to get up for work. When he was gone, there was no reason for Joker to stay, so he'd usually vanish soon after, as much to avoid Alfred as anything else. Presumably he found somewhere else to get a few more hours of sleep and work on his various plots, before late afternoon rolled around and it was time to see Bruce again.

Alfred was something of a sore point for Jack. Normally, any problem he encountered could be dealt with through knives, explosions, and fires, but _this_ was a different sort of problem entirely. A few more days had confirmed his theory that Bruce would indeed be extremely upset if something happened to Alfred, so Joker was at a bit of a loss about what to do. None of his usual methods were open. Talking things over had never been his strong point. And the problem didn't seem to be one that would go away on its own anytime soon…

In the meantime, Alfred was making it very clear that he was not about to be impressed by the Joker.

Alfred might not have approved of Master Wayne's newest interest, but he would not interfere. This did not, however, mean that he was going to let the Joker get away with behaving badly. Which was why he was now trying to persuade a very groggy, rather irritated clown to wake up at a relatively normal hour.

"But clowns are _nocturna_l," the Joker groaned, still half asleep. "Like bats are _supposed_ to be. Haven't ya ever read _It_?" When the British butler didn't respond, he groaned. "I'll bring my copy next time."

"All right," Alfred agreed. "I'll read it. But you're still getting up!"

After that, Jack usually avoided hanging around after Bruce had left.

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Having the Joker, now called Jack, around made life rather more…interesting. Among the first things Bruce had to get used to was having next to no privacy, something he had taken for granted before. Jack always had to be in the middle of everything, and was constantly showing up in unexpected places. Like the office. Or the alley Batman just happened to be investigating. Or Bruce's car in the middle of rush hour…

"I don't suppose you've ever heard of a fun little thing called _personal space_?" Bruce asked sarcastically, the third time it happened. It wasn't that he didn't _like_ seeing Jack, but there was a time and place for everything, and this was, quite definitively, _not_ it. The last thing he needed was the Joker in the middle of a traffic jam. If he kept this up, they'd be caught, there had a few close calls already. The last time, that jogger had been about a half-second from seeing them; she would've if Batman hadn't heard her at the last second. Damned distracting clown… At least he'd stopped leaning out the windows.

Jack leaned farther back in the passenger seat as his ever-present smile widened.

"In passing. A _useless_ idea, if ya ask me."

"I know plenty of people who'd disagree," Bruce muttered.

"Lemme guess, you _included_?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

The argument continued for two more miles of painfully slow city traffic before Bruce finally reached the penthouse. He parked and turned to look at Jack, who had gone oddly quiet.

"Are you coming in?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

Jack winced slightly.

"Stuff to do, time for me to be going," he muttered, giving Bruce a quick kiss and disappearing out the door. "See ya later."

Bruce got the uneasy feeling that his sudden departure might have had something to do with the fact that going in through the front door would involve seeing Alfred.

The involvement between Alfred and Jack now was best described as an uneasy truce. Both had grudgingly accepted that the other did not seem ready to pack up and leave, so they did their best to go about their business as usual, and ignored or avoided each other whenever possible. True to his word though, the Joker had brought along a battered paperback copy of _It _the next time he showed up.

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Over the next few days, Bruce couldn't help noticing that the city's crime rate seemed to have dropped. There were still plenty of petty pickpockets around, and a good deal of the mob big shots continued unperturbed, but most of the semi-professional crime had stopped almost dead. At first he thought it might have been because they believed Batman was a killer, but that made no sense. Why should they start now, months after the fact? Batman's supposed crimes were old news. It had to be something else.

The only link he could draw between the sudden downswing in crime and its strange timing was the Joker. Jack had to have a hand in this.

"You know," Bruce mentioned, very casually, the next time Jack showed up, "the local criminals seem to have lost their nerve lately."

"Oh. _Really_?"

"Much as I'd like to think it's because I'm doing such a good job as Batman," Bruce said wryly, "I don't think that's it. I _know_ you've got something to do with it."

"Who, _me_?" he asked, looking around in mock confusion. Looking carefully everywhere except at Bruce.

"Yes," Bruce said, shifting so that he couldn't possibly avoid looking at him any longer.

Jack tried for an innocent, wide-eyed look. His face couldn't quite pull it off.

"A few, ah…_friendly reminders_," he admitted finally, "to the effect that this is still _my_ town and nothin' happens without my say-so."

"I thought so," Bruce said with some satisfaction. This explained quite a lot, actually. Once word got around the underworld that committing a crime without the Joker's permission was taking your life into your own hands, most of the would-be criminals wouldn't risk it. Joker had only been around for a few months, and two of those had been spent in Arkham Asylum, but he had already established a fearsome reputation. No one would tangle with him if they could help it, unless they had a serious death wish or were already on his blacklist.

Jack shrugged.

"Ah, well, all's fair in love and war, and I think that, uh, _this_ might be a little of _both_."

"Fair enough," Bruce admitted. "But _why_?" That was the part he didn't get. Joker was trying to throw Gotham into chaos, so why was he suddenly acting as the city's watchman?

"'Cause," Jack told him, giving him a quick hug, "you're _my_ Bat."

Joker didn't actually own much – a few purple suits, some street clothes, paint, knives, unstable chemicals, and a handful of books and CDs were about it – but what he did own, he was extremely possessive of. And now, that included Batman. In a way, he _resented_ the other criminals Batman went after. The Bat was _his_, dammit, _his_. He shouldn't be wasting his time on those lowlifes. That was part of the reason he'd sent out the warning. No crimes, no criminals, no Batsy chasing them. Besides, the less crime, the less time Bats would be obligated to spend eliminating it, the more time he could spend with Jack. And he just didn't like competition. An all-around win-win.

The benefits might have been mutual, but the Batman side of Bruce thoroughly disapproved of the circumstances they were occurring in. _Well, I'm entitled to a social life too,_ Bruce thought mulishly.

_Yes, but not with the Joker!_

_I'll keep whatever company I like, thank you! And as long as he keeps his side of the bargain, it'll be worth it, to get Gotham cleaned up, I'm much better off working with him than against him…_

The part of his mind that was Batman went silent. He knew that the Bruce side of him was right, but it still irked him to have the Joker within his grasp and not at least _try_ to send him back to Arkham.

_It's just to help Gotham, _Bruce told himself sternly. _It's so I can keep an eye on him._ He did his best to ignore the large part of his mind that was scoffing derisively.

"I need coffee," he sighed, heading to the kitchen. He couldn't be expected to get through the evening without some caffeine, forget the rest of tonight, especially if he was going to start arguing with himself about this again...

Joker wrinkled his nose at the smell as Bruce poured himself a cup.

"Stuff's nasty," he muttered. "Dunno how you can drink that without puking."

"It keeps me awake," Bruce told him, draining the cup and pouring another. "That's all it has to do."

"Still nasty," Jack told him, eyeing the steaming mug.

"What, are you scared to try it?" Bruce asked lightly. He meant it as a joke, but Jack immediately picked up the mug and chugged the coffee, a mulish look on his face.

He set the now-empty mug down, with a slight grimace at the taste, and quirked his eyebrows at Bruce. Bruce's lips twitched. He couldn't help but feel slightly pleased with the fact that he'd managed to annoy Jack into doing something. Jack did it to him often enough, it was nice to repay the favor. His mood had improved a bit…at least, until he realized that he was now facing a highly caffeinated Joker.

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Since he'd made the deal with the Batman, Joker had had to be more… _creative_ in his attempts at chaos. Before, anything and everything was fair game. Now, his ideas had to be generally non-fatal, while still dangerous enough to be interesting, and measure up to his normal standards. It was a difficult balance to maintain. He didn't mind. The challenge was what made it so much fun. Well, that and watching Gotham's finest chase Chihuahuas around Cathedral Square. _That_ had been a good day. One of his prouder moments, actually, watching that clueless rookie cop trying to catch a particularly bloodthirsty parrot.

His misdeeds, previously sadistic, were now more on the mischievous side. This did _not_ mean that his newest crime spree was earning him any friends on the police force. All of his various varied offenses were designed to waste as much police time and effort as possible, and were an absolute nightmare to sort out. There was the time he'd switched all the license plates in the city…and the incident when he'd crashed every single ATM…and the fiasco when all the pounds and pet shops had been broken open, leaving Gotham full of milling dogs, cats, rodents, and birds…but what really had to take the cake was the gnomes.

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Jim Gordon had known it would be a bad day from the start. It never turned out to be a good day when he was out of instant coffee. But he had been unprepared for just how bad it really was.

He started to get some idea of what he was in for as he drew near the police station and heard the buzz of reporters. In Gotham, that was _never_ a good sign.

Nothing, though, could have prepared him for the sight that met his eyes as he rounded the corner. Lawn gnomes. _Hundreds_ of them, all standing at attention, staring glassily at the police station. A few had brilliantly red smiles slashed across their chubby cheeks, and Gordon bit back a sigh. He knew what that meant…

Minutes later, he had flashed his badge at the harried-looking guard keeping the reporters at bay and was striding down the hall, being appraised of the situation and looking for a cup of coffee.

"…all the privately owned gnomes in the city, plus all the gnomes from lawn and garden shops, representatives of the stores are outside trying to reclaim their lost merchandise…"

"Commissioner, there's s-s-something on the roof you should s-s-see," a new arrival cut in timidly. He was one of the new recruits, Gordon remembered tiredly, Denbruck or Denbrough or something, fresh out of the academy and terrified to be assigned to a town with such a high crime rate. Couldn't say he blamed him.

"What is it?" he asked warily, turning towards the rookie. Surely there couldn't be anything else; the lawn gnomes were nightmare enough, what with compensation claims, property damages, working out what gnomes belonged to who, and a dozen other complications, all of this besides the ever-present hunt for the Batman…_surely_ there couldn't be anything else?

"You'd b-b-b-better come and see," the rookie stammered, biting his lip. Under his freckles, he was pale as porcelain, and Gordon could see his hands shaking. What had scared this kid so badly?

Heart thumping, he strode up the stairs to the roof. He paused briefly at the thick door, considering things, before throwing it open…and was immediately struck by an overwhelming wave of _pink_.

Three enormous, twisted piles of faded pink plastic surrounded the shattered Bat signal. Here and there an amber eye flashed beadily from the crevice under an arched pink neck or behind bent wire legs. Gordon groaned. First lawn gnomes, now flamingos! What was this freak playing at?

There was no doubt now about what had frightened the rookie. The flamingos had been arranged into an enormous, sneering smiley face – the Joker's trademark. The lawn gnomes had been _his_ work, and he was making dead sure that they knew that by leaving them his calling card, written, of all things, in pink plastic _flamingos_.

Gordon ran a hand distractedly through his hair as a new thought occurred to him. How _exactly_ was he going to explain this one to the higher-ups? _Yes, a grand theft of __**lawn gnomes**__. That's exactly what I said. Yes, we do have a suspect, but he's a psychotic mass-murdering terrorist on the run and we have no clue where he is. No, we __**don't**__ know why he suddenly switched to lawn gnomes._

Today was going to be just _fabulous_.

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Bruce had woken up that morning to find Jack already gone, which was somewhat unusual. Normally he hung around long enough to say good morning and steal a quick kiss before vanishing.

_He probably had some new project or plan he needed to finish,_ Bruce decided, adjusting his tie. The thought didn't worry him unduly. So far Jack had kept his half of the deal and kept from killing anyone. Actually, most of his crimes now were kind of funny, provided you weren't the one cleaning them up.

He was just pulling on a suit jacket when he heard a rap at the balcony window, and by the time he turned around, Jack had made his usual entrance.

"I had been wondering where you'd gone," Bruce said lightly. Jack flashed him a quick smile. He was dressed as the Joker, and was carrying something bulky under one arm.

Bruce couldn't resist asking.

"What's that?"

His amusement turned to confusion though as Jack smirked and held up a garden gnome. Its cherry-red smile had been extended up its face with two vibrantly crimson slashes of lipstick, and with its blood-colored dunce cap and a tiny pickaxe clutched in its pudgy fists, it looked rather too menacing for an innocent piece of lawn art. Bruce found himself wondering what exactly the gnome was planning.

"Merry Christmas, Brucey," the Joker told him, handing him the gnome. Bruce stared at it before turning to him.

"What the hell is this for?"

"It's a, uh, souvenir," he said, his scarred lips twitching. "Watch the news."

And with that cryptic response, he turned and vanished back out the balcony door as quickly as he'd come. Bruce just shook his head. Someday he'd have to figure out how Jack got onto his roof so easily. For now though, he was curious. What exactly was on the news that he just _had_ to watch?

The grinning gnome still cradled in one arm, he flipped the TV on to the nearest news station.

"…and the rumor is out that the Joker is behind the inexplicable party of lawn gnomes surrounding the police station this morning…"

An image of the police station, a sea of gnomes visible in every direction, all standing at attention and staring expectantly at the building…

Ah. That would explain it then.

Bruce considered the gnome he was holding carefully. It was painted in garish shades of green, red, and blue, and even without the smile, it would have looked slightly demonic. It was tacky, bizarre, and mildly disturbing. He smiled slightly and put it out on the balcony.

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"Can you please stop throwing garden gnomes at me?"

~Frostbitten

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_Let me know what you think. Oh, and if you noticed any errors in my structure or grammar or anything, __**please**__ let me know! I got this account to improve my writing after all, so any constructive crit is welcomed. Thanks!_


	7. Time Off For Good Behavior

_**A/N:**__ I meant this chapter to be longer, but about halfway through I realized it would be __**too**__ long, and this was the only place I could split it. Next one will be a better length, I promise, and with any luck, will be up within a few days. *fingers crossed*_

_Amanda Saitou: Next chapter, I promise! I meant it to be this chapter, but I had to cut it off._

_CrAzY KiTtY: I hadn't actually planned on telling Lucius anytime soon, but if I decide he should be in the loop, I will definitely use that! I can picture Jack doing it_ _just to annoy Bruce... :)_

_Aka Tsukino: I'm honored that you like it. I just hope it lives up to expectations._

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"You are obvious, boy. You are difficult to miss. If you came to me in company with a purple lion, a green elephant, and a scarlet unicorn astride which was the King of England in his Royal Robes, I do believe that it is you and you alone that people would stare at, dismissing the others as minor irrelevancies."

~ Neil Gaiman

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One of the benefits of being obscenely rich is being able to set your own hours for work, and Bruce was taking full advantage of that. After Rachel's death, he had thrown himself into his job, spending almost all his free time in the office, but now, with Jack around, he started cutting back on the hours spent at work. Before long, he was back to only going in for board meetings and talks with Lucius.

For what felt like the first time in _years_, he was beginning to have free time. Bruce Wayne the billionaire idiot had to make a few appearances, but as long as he threw money around and gave the tabloids enough to talk about, that didn't take long. There was still plenty of crime for Batman to deal with, but with the Joker's warning still in effect, that was taking less time too.

The full impact of these developments didn't really strike him though until he woke up one day…and realized he had nothing to do. No meetings were scheduled for today, he had finished his talk with Lucius last night, Batman couldn't appear until nightfall, all his Bat gear was repaired and ready, Bruce Wayne didn't currently have a girlfriend to worry about, he'd made an idiot of himself yesterday morning, so the tabloids would be satisfied for a few days… Did he honestly have a whole day off?

He wracked his brain incredulously, trying to think of something, _anything_, he'd forgotten to do. There was nothing.

_There has to be something,_ he thought, slightly desperately. His life was in a constant state of barely-controlled chaos, and now he was expected to believe that he had _time off?_ Impossible.

But when he asked Alfred, his old friend confirmed the unlikely analysis.

"Looks like you've got a day free," he smiled. "Might I suggest you enjoy it?"

Bruce nodded, slightly dazed. How long had it been since he'd actually had a day to relax?

This was a distinctly strange turn of events. As such, he decided, he should use his day off to do something a little…unusual. The idea had been at the back of his head for a while, but never as more than a passing thought. Now that he had time though…he was going to take a leaf out of the Joker's book, and have _fun_.

He slipped back into the master bedroom, thinking it over. Jack was just stirring.

"G'morning," Bruce said lightly, watching him stretch.

"Morning, definitely," Jack yawned back. "Whether it's good or not is, mmm, up for debate."

"Oh, I'd definitely call it a good morning," Bruce smiled. He leaned over to give Jack a gentle hug, which the Clown Prince returned, leaning against his shoulder.

Even now, it still surprised him, how gentle Bruce was. When he'd begun their strange relationship, he'd expected that he would get hurt, that it would leave him with bruise upon bruise, same as his encounters with the Batman had. He wouldn't have really minded. He _liked_ the pain. But he was learning to enjoy the pleasure too.

"Well, why's it such a good morning?" he couldn't resist asking. Bruce's smile grew.

"I've got the day off. For once, I have absolutely nothing that needs doing."

Far a moment, Jack was simply stunned. Then he grinned too, scars twisting as he crowed, "Excellent! What're we doin'?"

"First," Bruce informed him, "you need to take a shower."

He'd washed the makeup off the night before, but his hair was still green, and he had to look normal for Bruce's idea to work.

"Why?" Jack asked, half curious, half suspicious, taking a surreptitious whiff of himself. He didn't smell any worse than he usually did. Bruce smiled slightly.

"I'll tell you once you're done."

He had come to realize that Jack was as curious as a cat, and always had to know what was going on. To that end, Bruce had worked out that the easiest way to get him to do something was just to refuse to tell him what it was about until after it was done.

Jack stared at him for a moment, eyes slitted, before realizing Bruce wasn't going to budge on this.

"_Fine_," he groaned, striding into the bathroom, "but it'd better be worth it!"

Bruce allowed himself a quiet chuckle as the door slammed shut.

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Jack pulled off the last of his clothes and stepped into the shower, hot water going full blast. Loathe as he was to admit it, it felt good. It was probably about time too. When had his last shower been? A week ago? Five days? Even for him, it was a bit too long.

He stood still for a moment, savoring the warm water running down his back, before borrowing Bruce's shampoo. The sooner he was done, the sooner he'd know what _exactly_ Batsy was planning.

Rinsing the shampoo out of his lank hair, he watched as it swirled down the drain, taking the green dye with it. He couldn't help feeling slightly uneasy as the last trace of his mask was washed away.

He still felt uncomfortable without the makeup. Bruce had a knack for stripping away his carefully crafted masks, but he'd held onto that one for as long as he could. With that last remaining barrier peeled away, he felt utterly exposed, and he couldn't shake the vague dread that Bruce wouldn't like what he saw when all the illusions were down, would turn away.

That didn't seem to happening though, and he allowed himself to relax a little, the hot water easing the tension out of his muscles. God only knew why Bruce didn't seem to have a problem with dating his arch-nemesis, but Jack certainly wasn't about to complain.

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Bruce was searching his closet when Jack stepped out of the bathroom, looking almost eerily normal now that the last hint of his Joker ensemble was gone, and wearing nothing but a pair of bright purple boxers.

"All right, done. Now mind telling me what you've uh, got planned for the day?"

"We're spending the day in the city," Bruce told him calmly, checking a stack of shirts. Probably better to go casual today, blend in…

"_Excuse me_?"

Jack, he noted with some amusement, looked stunned.

"You heard me. We're going to have an absolutely _normal_ day, without any explosions, media mobbings, heists, or fistfights."

Jack was going from stunned to simple disbelief.

"And we're both going as civilians," he went on, "so you can borrow some of my clothes…"

Except that wouldn't work, Bruce realized suddenly with a sinking feeling. He was about the same height as Jack, maybe a half inch taller, but they were built very differently. His clothes wouldn't fit Jack at all.

"This is gonna to be one of those things where _nothing_ I say or do will convince ya to give it up, isn't it?" Jack asked. Bruce nodded. He'd find some way to work around the clothes issue…

"Ignoring the fact that people tend to, ah, run in abject _terror_ whenever I show up?"

"We'll work something out." Bruce said stubbornly. It couldn't be _that_ hard to cover the telltale scars, and he was determined that Jack should see the good side of the city, not just the slums and the gang haunts in the Narrows.

"_Fine_," Jack groaned, slipping back into the bathroom. "But at the absolute _least_, I'm gonna wear _my_ clothes." God only knew why he was actually _agreeing_ to this lunacy…

"Um, that's kind of the point, that you _not_ go as the Joker." Bruce told him through the door.

"Not _those_ clothes." There was a muffled grunt. "_These_ clothes."

He emerged wearing a pair of faded brown boots, artistically frayed jeans held up by a thick leather belt, and one of the cheap Batman T-shirts that filled Gotham's tourist traps. That in itself didn't really surprise Bruce… but he hadn't known those T-shirts came in _quite_ that shade of purple.

"Where did those come from?" he asked, surprised. He'd thought Jack just had the clothes he'd come in with; where had he been keeping a whole new outfit?

Jack's eyebrows rose.

"A _store_?"

"No, I meant…you know, never mind," Bruce sighed. "Are you ready?"

"One last thing," Jack told him, fishing something red out of a pocket. A moment later he'd found what he was looking for. A light scarf. He carefully wrapped it around his mouth and nose, hiding his scars entirely. "There. Ready as I'll ever be."

"All right," Bruce agreed, a smile slowly stretching its way across his face. Jack groaned softly and allowed himself to be tugged out the door.

"Let the records show I thought this was bad idea from the start," he grumbled. Why did he get the feeling that doing this would turn out to be a mistake?

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Into the woods,  
The path is straight,  
No reason then  
To hesitate...

~**Into the Woods**

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	8. Good People

_**A/N:**__ Eep! A week, not exactly a few days…sorry for the delay, rewriting that one scene took longer than I thought. On that note__**: the play opens Thursday, so there won't be any updates for at least a week, probably longer.**__ Sorry, but I'm going to be spending every spare minute trying to get enough homework done that I'm not kicked out of my classes, so writing will, unfortunately, have to wait._

_Whoah. 100 reviews. First time any of my stories have ever gotten that many. *bows to awesomeness of the wonderful reviewers*_

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Let us go then, you and I,  
When the evening is spread out against the sky  
Like a patient etherized upon a table;  
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,  
The muttering retreats  
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels  
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:  
Streets that follow like a tedious argument  
Of insidious intent  
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .

~_The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,_ T. S. Eliot

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Joker, as a general rule, liked crowds. He especially liked them when he was a cautious distance away, waiting for something nasty to happen. Being in the middle of one though, looking just like everyone else and being jostled and bumped from every side, was one of his absolute _least_ favorite things.

"Remind me _again_ why we're doing this," he growled, elbowing a teenager who'd been getting a little too close for comfort.

"Because it's something I wanted to do," came Bruce's reply from somewhere to his right, "and _you _are being nice and humoring me." Hmm. He'd thought Jack would be the one attracting stares, but apparently he was a bit more noticeable than he'd thought. He must be out of practice. Jack barely earned a first glance from most of the resident city-goers, much less a second, but people kept turning around to look at him; it was only a matter of time before someone actually recognized him…

"I could think of _plenty_ of other things to do if you were, uh, short on ideas," Jack hinted, following him out of the main crowd towards some vendors.

"I spend my nights trying to defend this city," Bruce told him firmly, buying a baseball cap. "I want the chance to see what I've accomplished. There. What do you think?"

Jack eyed him critically. Bruce could pull off a lot of things that would be impossible for most people, but a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes was pushing it.

"Well, ya _won't_ be recognized," he said finally. Bruce winced.

"That bad?"

"People think _I_ have no sense of fashion…"

"Well, as long as it doesn't look like something Bruce Wayne would wear," he muttered, turning and walking down the sidewalk. Reluctantly, Jack followed him. As much as he didn't want to be doing this, he wanted to lose track of Brucey even less.

After a few blocks, Jack stopped. Bruce turned to look back at him, eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Having second thoughts?"

"No, just wondering…" His voice trailed off, and he glanced curiously at Bruce. "What _exactly_ had ya planned on doing today?"

Bruce opened his mouth to reply…and realized he didn't know. He'd never actually considered beyond simply spending a day in the city.

"I don't know," he said finally. Jack's eyebrows rose. "What do you normally do on a day in the city?"

"_Me?_ Well, first I get dressed up as the Joker, then I usually make bombs and steal from mobsters…" Even under the thin scarf, Bruce could see him smirking.

"I guess we're not the best people in the world to ask about normal," he admitted, setting off again.

Jack must be more of an influence than he'd thought. Usually, he tried to plan everything out. _Some of the Joker's chaotic tendencies must be wearing off, _he decided.

The odd pair walked a few more blocks before taking a left turn, and found themselves at the foot of Wayne Tower.

"Looks a lot different from down here," Bruce muttered, craning upward at the W emblazoned across the building's collar. Normally, he was at the top looking down.

"We should take a tour," Jack said suddenly, eyes glittering. "C'mon."

Bruce was about to protest that he hadn't even known there _was_ a tour, but before he got the chance, Jack had steered them both inside.

Once inside, Jack's eyes flicked around endlessly, taking in the security guards, cameras, receptionists, and exits. Bruce noticed this, and frowned.

"If you're planning a heist, you can forget it," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Jack gave him his very best _who, me?_ look and went to ask when the next tour was.

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"It was reestablished in 1926, following the flood…"

Bruce stifled another yawn with difficulty as the obscenely perky blonde tour guide kept up her spiel. This tour was mind-bendingly, gut-wrenchingly, reality-twisting _boring_. He knew all this already, knew this building from foundation to rooftop. This was _not_ what he'd had in mind for a day off.

_At least Jack's enjoying himself,_ he thought wryly. The Clown Prince was watching the tour guide with an expression of rapt attention, nodding emphatically and occasionally muttering 'uh huh's or interested 'mmm's. Bruce could tell he was being sarcastic, but he wasn't sure anyone else could.

"My, that's interesting," he commented as the pretty tour guide finished. She preened. Bruce could see his eyes glittering maliciously, and couldn't help feeling slightly scornful. Jack was stringing the girl along, and she wasn't just falling for it: she was throwing herself into it headfirst.

"Well, let's continue through the portrait gallery, shall we?" she suggested, attempting to flutter her eyelashes. Jack smirked and followed her down the broad hall.

Bruce hung back as the rest of the group, mostly bored-looking teens on a field trip, straggled after the clown and the tour guide. Being herded along in a crowd like that felt awkward, and was far too similar to his experiences in Asian prisons, albeit without the mud and fleas. He savored the moment alone as the group turned the corner ahead of him.

Now that he was alone, he decided to risk taking off the baseball cap. Sweat plastered it to his forehead and trickled down the back of his neck, and it was driving him crazy. He'd withstood far worse, but it was _annoying_, like a piece of food stuck in your teeth.

_Just for a few minutes_, he told himself, yanking the hat off and rubbing at his sweaty hair. Mmm, it felt good to finally get it off.

Unfortunately, when he chose to remove it, he was standing in a portrait gallery of company owners. Right next to his own portrait.

Even then, this might not have led to anything, except that at that moment, the rather annoyed-looking guide came marching back down the hall, the rest of the tour still trailing after her.

"Sir," she shrilled, "I must _insist _you remain with the group and not…"

Her voice trailed off as she suddenly caught sight of the portrait behind the man she was telling off. He quickly jammed the hat back on, but it was too late. The damage was done.

Did we forget to mention that the tour group included several teenage girls who read the tabloids as devotedly as others would read religious texts?

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"That," Bruce declared grimly, "was a bad idea." His shirt was smudged with lipstick and slightly torn, and he looked distinctly rumpled.

Jack pulled a face.

"_Not_ my fault. I'm not the one who decided to start strikin' poses in front of the portraits!" He had a thin cut across one hand, and his scarf looked very much as though someone had tried to yank it off him.

"I just wanted to get the stupid hat off," Bruce muttered sullenly. "I didn't think it would turn into a mob…"

"Explosions and fistfights are one thing," Jack growled. "Your, ah, _fangirls_ are another. Wonder what kinda damage they cause," he mused, glancing back at the supremely innocent-looking skyscraper behind them. "I've never seen anyone throw a chair like _that_ before…"

Bruce winced. "I owe Lucius an apology."

They wandered north, rapidly, to Robinson Park. If they stood a chance of blending in _anywhere_, Bruce thought, it would be there. And this time, he wouldn't take the hat off.

After just a few blocks though, he felt some of the paranoid tension dissipating, and by the time they'd reached the park, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. It felt good simply to get out and see the city when it wasn't through the eyeholes of a cowl or a limousine's windows, and the sensation was somehow heightened by Jack's presence at his left shoulder. Batman and the Joker enjoying a day out. How weirdly, delightfully _normal_.

Bruce felt a rare measure of peace and contentment descend. It was immensely satisfying to see ordinary people going about their lives. It let him know what he was doing as Batman was helping, having some effect. He'd have to start doing this more often.

They turned off the sidewalk onto the crowded main pathway through the park. Despite the city around it, it was actually a very nice place. The paths were clean, the lawn well maintained, and even this close to winter, the gardens were blooming flamboyantly, their variety of color almost matching that of the people enjoying them.

As much as he enjoyed seeing them, within a few minutes, Bruce started to feel uncomfortable, surrounded by so many people. Jack caught his eye and gave his head a slight jerk. Bruce nodded. Without a word being spoken, they turned off the well-populated main trails onto one of the smaller paths, half-hidden in the landscaping.

This set of trails, set deep under the overhanging trees and drenched in shade, was fairly deserted. Most people preferred the manicured jogging paths in the bright sunshine, especially with winter's chill already creeping into the air.

The trail they were on was relatively straight, and almost due west. Bruce thought back to a map he'd seen of the park and surrounding area. If it kept on going, they would probably end up going straight through the park to the zoo…

He was right. The path led through the park to the edge of the Gotham zoo, running the length of its fence past several service entrances. Jack kept an interested eye on them. He'd never been back here before, and he could think of oh so many creative ways to incorporate these paths and gates into one of his ideas.

Out of curiosity, he tested one of the gates. Locked. Bruce's eyebrows rose under the hat, but he didn't comment.

_Hmm, pity all these doors were shut,_ he mused, keeping an eye on the chain-link and plastic fence. All he'd need was one little gate to be open…

They turned a corner, and he got his wish. A boy of nineteen or so in an outsized zookeeper's shirt was lugging an enormous cat carrier from the side door to a waiting car. Inside the crate, a gray lemur chattered angrily, poking its long fingers out of the bars, trying to grab his hair or clothes.

Bruce started snickering.

"What?" Jack asked, slightly confused. What joke was he missing out on?

"The lemur…" Bruce snorted. "He looks like you!"

Jack stared at him before his eyes narrowed. "You, uh, might not have noticed, Brucey…but _I_ don't have a stripy tail."

"The eyes though…" Bruce told him, watching the teen struggle to fit the massive crate into the back of the car. "The eyes are _exactly_ right."

"Still doesn't make me a lemur," Jack said dismissively, turning away. Bruce smiled and followed him.

"We could add lipstick, and then he'd _really_ look like you!" he suggested, lips twitching. Jack glanced back at him. _Two can play that game._

"Or we could find some Spandex and a cape, and we'd have a Bat lemur," he returned.

Bruce quirked his eyebrows.

"Nah, he couldn't pull off that _particular_ brand of Bat angst," Jack decided abruptly. "'bout how the whole city hates him, and he's not sure he's actually doin' anything, and his alter ego's getting just a little too _real_…"

Bruce winced suddenly. Jack's eyes widened. Dammit, his mouth had run away with him again! He had to get that tongue of his under control.

"Sorry I brought it up," he mumbled. Bruce just shook his head.

"It's hard," Bruce muttered. He wasn't sure why he was telling this to the Joker, of all people… "Every time you put on the mask, it's harder to take it off again."

Jack stopped suddenly. Bruce turned to face him.

"Do ya think I don't know how it feels to put on a mask?" he asked quietly. "To lose yourself behind it?" Bruce's stomach gave an odd lurch.

_Jack __**did**__ know,_ he realized suddenly. Jack couldn't have only ever existed as the Joker. He had to have been someone else, before he became the Clown Prince, and he would understand perfectly the twisted, conflicted duality of Batman and Bruce.

Except that he wasn't just Batman and Bruce Wayne now. If he was thinking of them in third person, he realized, then in addition to the two distinct personas he already had, he was developing yet another. He was already Batman, the dark avenger and Bruce Wayne, businessman and playboy. And now, there was a third: the person he was when he was around Jack, who could be sarcastic and occasionally immature, who could indulge a few whims, who could talk without first weighing his words to see if they were in-character.

A third persona. A third act to maintain.

_But maybe I have it wrong?_ he wondered. Maybe Batman and Bruce Wayne were the acts, and it was only when he was with Jack that he was really himself, and not reading from someone else's script. It certainly _felt_ more real when he was around Jack.

God, it felt more real than anything had since Rachel had died.

This part of his life, this…affair, had ceased to be about Gotham and his struggle to protect it. It was now about what _he _needed, about the way he felt alive when Jack kissed him, felt that maybe he could exist as his own person, beyond the endless, circular games of cat-and-mouse Batman played across the city. It was about his own, desperate effort to reclaim part of the life that had all but vanished under the cowl.

He was willing to die defending this city, but he wasn't willing to lose himself to it.

Easier said than done though. There were precious few people he could allow himself to become close to, and even amongst the few he did trust, none could ever cross the last final distance and understand the war that raged between his different selves. It was easy, terrifyingly, seductively easy, to slip into darkness when you were so isolated from everyone around you.

He was isolated, but he certainly wasn't _alone_. He'd had Rachel and Harvey Dent. He still had Lucius and Gordon. Most of all, he had Alfred.

Alfred was his oldest and closest friend. Without him, Bruce had no doubt that he'd have snapped long ago. But Alfred was a mentor and father figure, and while he was unquestionably Bruce's friend, he wasn't the friend Bruce needed. Jack was. It felt better than he could've imagined, having someone close to his age that he could tease, and laugh with, and talk openly with. Having a true, honest-to-god _friend_.

He hadn't understood how close he had been to snapping before Jack's arrival had given him an outlet. It was like coming in out of the cold and not realizing, until the numbness wore off and the blood began flowing again, just how close you had been to freezing.

When he'd begun his work as Batman, he knew that friends were something that would be few and very far between. Now, in spite of all, it looked like he'd found one.

He turned to his companion, a slight smile on his face and his eyes affectionate…only to realize that Jack was not, in fact, there.

_Oh crap_, he thought, looking around frantically. There were plenty of people, but none of them were blonds wearing a purple Batman shirt and a red scarf.

Jack was missing! He'd given up killing, but there was still plenty of other damage he could do…

His brief burst of sentimentality forgotten, Bruce immediately began searching for him, muttering a string of Tibetan obscenities under his breath.

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Jack was currently sitting under a bush next to the pond, gazing across the water at the jogging path opposite him. It was packed with folks looking to enjoy what may be some of the last sunshine of the year, and was absolutely perfect for one of his favorite diversions: people watching.

He carefully observed the people passing, mentally cataloguing each of them, much as a scientist would some vaguely interesting insect species. _Tourist, depressed housewife, lovelorn college kid, more tourists, undercover cop, secretary on break, wannabe punk, retired old guy with no life outside of chess…_

God, these people were so _boring_. Their sheer idiocy never failed to amuse him. At first, they all seemed so different, endlessly, wonderfully unique. But then you watched a little longer, and realized that they were just simple variations of a few basic themes. Nothing special. Nothing original. A flock of identical sheep.

All of them were too wrapped up in their silly little lives to notice anything past the ends of their noses. They accepted as gospel truth the sanitized pap the government fed them, did as they were told, and tried not to attract trouble. Sheep, all of them, bleating, baaing, mewling sheep ready and ripe for the slaughter.

_Why are they so afraid to __**live**__ a little?_ he wondered, watching another group of schoolkids scurry past in a frightened clump, followed by a sour-looking spinster wearing carpet slippers. Why couldn't they see that nothing but their own fear was stopping them from doing whatever they wanted? Why was it so impossible to have a world where people were as fiercely awake and aware as he and Bats were, where they _acted_ instead of making plan upon pointless, useless plan?

A flock of tourists strolled by, snapping pictures of everything that moved and walking with the arrogant confidence of complete and idiotically dangerous naiveté. Must be from Metropolis. They wouldn't last long in Gotham.

Seems he'd gotten his answer, he reflected, watching them enthusiastically photograph a jogger, who flipped them a universally recognized hand gesture and ran a little faster.

There were a couple exceptions, but, in general…people were worthless idiots.

It was only after tearing through the park twice, scanning the crowd frantically for any trace of purple, that Bruce spotted him.

He was sitting by the edge of the pond, looking, as far as Bruce could see, completely engrossed in absolutely nothing, staring intently across the water at what seemed to be the autumn-stripped trees. At the sight, Bruce felt some of his alarm drain away, to be replaced by mild annoyance.

"Don't suppose you'd feel like telling me why you vanished like that?" he asked, sitting down next to Jack.

"Why, hello to you too," Jack told him without looking up. "Nice of you to show up after _you_ vanished on _me_."

"_What_?"

"Yep," he said, finally looking at Bruce. "I look around, and my Bat's gone and, uh, _disappeared._ So I figured I'd wait until ya showed up again. You usually do."

Bruce wasn't entirely sure whether to believe him or not, but his curiosity got the better of him.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

"People watching," Jack replied, going back to staring at the opposite shore.

Bruce followed his gaze. Ordinary people going about their lives. To him, it was soothing, but Jack was watching them fixedly, as though they were a fascinating TV show he didn't want to miss.

A moment later, he realized what Jack was so interested in. A young girl, about college age, storming along the waterfront, followed by a protesting young man…

He tensed slightly. It looked like a fight waiting to happen.

Jack perked up.

"Ah, _now_ it's getting interesting," he whispered, leaning forward intently.

"We're over, Marcus!" the girl shrieked, stomping along. The boy, Marcus, followed her, trying frantically to shush her.

"Bette, not here," he muttered, catching her hand. "We can talk about this later, not in the middle of the park…"

"We can talk NOW," she shot back, yanking her hand out of his grip. Jack and Bruce weren't the only ones watching now; traffic had pretty much come to a standstill around the bickering couple.

He ran a hand through his hair, defeated.

"OK, fine," he growled. "You wanna talk about this here, Betty, we'll talk here."

"Don't take that tone with me!" Betty snapped. "I know you've been screwing Vivian behind my back! I'm not stupid!"

He grew suddenly angry.

"That's not true!" he shouted. "You _are_ fucking stupid, too fucking stupid to see how crazy you're being! I was nowhere near Vivian!"

"Well if I'm so fucking stupid, then I guess you can keep _this_," she spat, pulling a ring off her finger and throwing it into the pond. She stormed away as he glanced from her to the ring, clearly indecisive, before abruptly rushing after her.

"Betty, no, _Betty_!"

They disappeared behind the line of trees. Jack leaned back, chuckling softly.

"He's got it wrong. They're _both_ crazy."

"Something you'd know all about," Bruce said before he could stop himself.

"I'm not crazy," Jack growled, suddenly annoyed. "The quacks at Arkham might, uh, think so, but I'm _not_."

"Why, what was their diagnosis?" Bruce asked as lightly as he could. He couldn't help being interested; he was getting at least partway into the Joker's head, succeeding where the psychiatrists had failed. _Although,_ he reminded himself with a strange mix of pride and discomfiture, _that may have been because none of them were dating him._

Jack chuckled darkly.

"Well, 'ccording them, I'm a…what was it?" He pretended to think. "Oh _yeah_…an attention-deficit bipolar paranoid schizophrenic with multiple personalities and sociopathic overtones. To use the, ah, direct quote. Basically," he added with smirk, "I'm just one big headache."

"You sound so pleased about it," Bruce commented with a wry smile. Jack's smirk grew broader.

"The psychotic psychiatrists wanna try and _help_ me, sort out the confused little mess in my brain…and advance their own careers while they're at it. I got sick of bein' a sample on a slide. If their new test subject won't co-opera_te_, then good riddance. I don't plan on making things easy for 'em."

"Why won't you let them try?" Bruce asked quietly. "They want to help you, they could rehabilitate you, you could be normal…"

Joker laughed harshly.

"It's _you_ that wants to be _normal_," he snorted. "Not me. I _like_ bein' a freak. I don't need their help."

"If you enjoy being a psychotic, murdering clown, I'd definitely say you've got a problem," Bruce sighed. "If you're so sure they can't do anything, why won't you let them try?"

"They're too stuck in their own pathetic, meaningless lives to see past their own noses," Jack told him scornfully. "They're too trapped in their own heads. Why should I let them poke me and drug me and drive me crazy and trap me in mine?"

"_Drive_ you crazy?" Bruce asked with a raised eyebrow. Much as he liked Jack now, he couldn't help but think he was more than a little unhinged.

"I'm _not_ crazy."

He really wasn't crazy. Crazy implied that you didn't comprehend what you were doing. He knew _exactly_ what he was doing, and relished it. He wasn't insane. At least, not in the sense that they meant.

Bruce shrugged and decided not to press the point.

"So, what're we doing now?" he asked. "I've run out of ideas."

"Well, we've seen _your_ part of the city," Jack told him, taking his hand. "Come see _mine_."

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The place Jack led him to had once been a thriving amusement park, in the days when the Narrows had been Gotham's downtown. Then, it must have been stunning, all flashing bulbs and neon lights. Now, it was simply derelict, the high wooden fence as broken and gapped as a drunkard's smile after a bar fight, the once brightly colored buildings faded by time to nondescript brown and gray, save where they were covered in spray-painted gang symbols.

"Gotham's Amusement Mile," Jack told Bruce, leading him to a particularly large gap in the fence. "No one comes here anymore, not even the gangs."

"Would _that_ have something to do with it?" Bruce asked sarcastically, pointing at one particular gang sign: a bright red spray-painted grin overscored by two black circles…

"It might," Jack admitted, pushing a few boards aside so he could slip through. Bruce followed him, reflecting wryly that his new boyfriend was someone even the crazies were afraid of.

Jack jumped over a few garbage cans…and into the long-abandoned fairground itself. Instantly, he felt more at ease. This was _his_ territory. Bruce might be best suited to the crowds and boulevards of the downtown, but here, among the broken-down carnival rides and moldering cabarets, was where he was most comfortable.

He yanked the scarf off and shoved it back into his pocket. "Feels good to finally get that off," he muttered, licking his scars. Taking his cue from Jack, Bruce removed his hat. As soon as he got home, he was going to stuff that thing in the garbage. It had been nothing but an annoyance all day long.

"How long has it been since this place shut down?" he wondered, looking around. It looked utterly desolate; but then, this was Gotham. A place could end up looking like this within a week.

"About fifty years, I think," Jack shrugged. "Give or take."

This area was completely unfamiliar to Bruce. He'd flown over it a few times as Batman, but like Jack said, no one came here, so there had been no reason to take a closer look.

"Do'you come here often?" he asked. This place smacked of faded grandeur and tawdry flash. It seemed like exactly the kind of place the Joker would like.

"A fair amount," Jack admitted. "It's handy to have around. Plus it's just _nifty_. You never know what ya might find in an old carnival."

"Like what?" He was honestly curious now.

"Well," Jack told him playfully, "why don't ya look for yourself?"

Bruce stared at him for a moment, trying to decipher whether or not it was a trick, before shrugging and moving to examine some of the old posters plastered across a cheap plyboard wall. Old advertisements for freak shows and hot popcorn, almost lost under the layers of territorial graffiti, stared back.

Jack seemed impatient. "Well, c'mon," he said eagerly, nudging Bruce. "There's plenty more around."

"I want to finish with these though," Bruce told him calmly, gesturing at the aged announcements. Jack growled impatiently and darted around the side of the building.

"Come on!" His voice floated out from around the corner. "We've barely even begun!"

Bruce gave in and padded lightly over to the corner of the building. At first he thought he couldn't be looking properly, but after a moment he was forced to admit that Jack had vanished almost as silently as Batman.

"Well, ya comin'?" Jack called again.

Ah. Not so silently then.

"I can't see you," Bruce called back lightly.

"I'm right over here!" came Joker's voice from farther down the midway. Bruce peered into the gloom and thought he saw a glimpse of a purple shirt…

As soon as he started towards it though, the conspicuous splash of color vanished, reappearing a little ways away. Bruce started after it experimentally. It disappeared. He stopped. After a moment, Jack called, "Well, c'mon Bats! Never find me if ya keep going like that!" Bruce smiled slightly. So that was his game.

What had begun as an exploration had turned into a light flirtation, and from there into a game of keep-away-closer, Bruce chasing after the cackling Joker, following the teasing chuckle and the occasional half-glimpsed flash of a smile through the rundown park. No matter how hard Bruce ran, he was always just ahead. When Bruce slowed though, he didn't vanish: just stayed barely in sight, teasing Bruce and encouraging him to keep going.

Bruce wasn't quite sure why he was bothering to play this game. Some part of him thought it was immature, pointless, stupid, a waste of time, and he ought to just go home now. Another part though, a rather large part, was honestly having _fun_.

"Any Jokers in here?" Bruce called teasingly, stepping up to the entrance of a rotting dance hall. The dim shapes of old velvet-cushioned chairs beckoned eerily from inside.

"Nope," came a voice behind him. Bruce immediately turned and ran after it, following Jack through the darkening fairgrounds, the sun slowly setting over the horizon.

He wasn't sure whether he was chasing or being chased, but what did it matter? It felt delightful just to run, to feel the exhilaration of being Batman without the constant danger. Anyway, that was how it always was with the Joker, wasn't it? No way to tell whether you were hunting or being hunted.

Bruce saw a flash of purple dart through a funhouse door on the right, and jogged over to check it out. It looked like a dead end. Maybe Jack was ready to be caught…

As soon as he stepped inside though, the darkened hallways burst into blazing life.

The floor under his feet began to tilt crazily, threatening to tip him against the paint-splashed walls. He struggled to keep his balance, and put out a hand to steady himself against the wall…until that began to move too, tipping inward towards him with a protesting screech of metal on metal. The way out rapidly closing behind him, he had no choice but to jump forward, onto what looked like a relatively stable patch of floor. He cursed quietly. Jack must have been planning this.

That stable patch of floor began to slide forward, carrying him farther down the garishly painted hall, picking up speed as it went. It seemed to end, _very _abruptly, a little ways ahead. Bruce braced himself, and went into a somersault that landed him in what looked a lot like a sewer pipe.

That impression was immediately dispelled as the lights in this room too came on, revealing faux hypnotic black and white swirls painted along the entire cylinder. They began to twirl slowly, and Bruce realized that the entire tube was rotating, taking him with it.

Doing a strange kind of moonwalk along the length of the tube to keep his balance, he stepped awkwardly into the next room and saw…himself.

The entire room was lined with mirrors, Bruce Wayne reflected over and over again, spinning off into eternity.

As soon as he realized this though, the room began to rotate, the multitude of Bruces revolving gently, then faster and faster…

Bruce's eyes flicked back and forth. His training was of no use here; there were no enemies to fight. He could only rely on his senses and hope that he spotted…

There! A door…

As soon as he started towards it was gone, lost in the spinning wall of mirrors. His own face, twisted and distorted by the speed, started back at him. He balked at the sight, beginning to feel sick.

He saw the door spin past once more, and dove through it…

"BOO!" Jack screeched, jumping out of nowhere. Bruce jumped, and he began laughing, cackling insanely, almost doubled over.

"Oh boy," he giggled, wiping at his eyes. "Your face…"

"Good to see you too," Bruce said sarcastically, breathing heavily. "Finally."

As Jack started continued laughing, he took the opportunity to look around the room he had landed in. Dim, mostly boarded up, filled with old mirrors and dilapidated pieces of carnival rides. A tattered sign reading 'Ex t' hung over a rusted steel door.

"So," Jack snickered, finally calming down, "any ah, permanent damage? Feel OK?"

"A little dizzy," Bruce admitted.

"Ah, well, that can happen," the clown told him, pulling him into a kiss. "You seemed to handle it OK though."

"Courtesy of several years' training," Bruce informed him.

"Thank you, James Bond," Jack snickered. Bruce smiled and drew him into his arms.

"Well," he murmured, breath hot on Jack's ear, "if I'm Bond, wouldn't that make you one of the Bond girls?"

"Mmm," Jack mumbled, leaning into Bruce, "if I'm a… Bond girl, then I _demand_ the full benefits."

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, silently requesting a kiss. Bruce obliged.

"So," the unmasked clown muttered when they finally pulled away, "how did ya like your day off?"

Bruce was silent for a moment, his face oddly thoughtful. It hadn't been the perfectly normal day he'd been expecting…but it had definitely been _fun_, more fun than he'd had in a while.

"What did _you_ think of it?" he asked finally.

"It was _crazy_," Jack muttered. "Actually, crazy doesn't even _begin_ to cover it."

"Well, I enjoyed it," Bruce sniffed, loathe to admit that crazy really was the right word. Jack glanced at him, wearing an amused half-smile.

"Why made ya think I don't _like_ crazy?"

"Meaning that if I decided to do this again…" Bruce asked, suddenly much happier. Jack gave him a sidelong look that was equal parts amusement and exasperation.

"Depends, but…I think I could live with it. Maybe."

"Good."

A pause.

"_Do_ you plan on doin' this again?"

"I think I'd like to," Bruce admitted, curling one hand around the safety bar of an old roller coaster cart. "It felt…sort of normal. Good."

Jack leaned back, yawning slightly. "Well," he mumbled, "I'd be lyin' if I said it wasn't fun seein' _your_ part of my city."

"Your city?" Bruce asked, eyebrows raised. Jack's lips curled into a mischievous grin.

"Yep, my city. It's mine for as long as I can keep it."

In spite of himself, Bruce was intrigued.

"It's…your city, until someone else manages to take it? How does that _work_?"

Jack shrugged, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. "Crane was your first supervillain. He got taken out early in the game. Batboy needed a new one, so I showed up. I'm your villain now, until some other villain manages to replace me, which I _don't_ plan on lettin' happen, by the way."

"What do you mean, I needed a supervillain?" Bruce asked suspiciously. "I'm pretty sure I was getting along all right without one…"

"You, uh, practically put out a _welcome mat_," Jack snickered. "Ya set yourself up as Batman, you're sending out a want ad – 'Lonely superhero seeks villain, no experience necessary, bring your own costume.'"

Batman was a _challenge_, a hero as yet untested. Whether he realized it or not, he had claimed Gotham as his turf and challenged any and all to try and take it from him. The challenge had been utterly irresistible to Joker.

"I was not!" Bruce protested. "I wasn't looking for a supervillain, I just wanted to take out the ordinary villains!"

Jack groaned.

"That's the _point_. You can't have a superhero fighting _ordinary_ villains, ya need a supervillain. You up the stakes, the other side responds. You set up a hero, a villain shows up."

_I think I owe Gordon an apology,_ Bruce thought, finally comprehending what Jack was driving at. Escalation in action. It made a horrible kind of sense. By declaring himself a superhero, he attracted supervillains. Each side would keep upping the stakes until they destroyed each other or the city.

Jack watched him with some satisfaction. He was finally starting to get it!

"It's never been about the city," he said, voice just a little bit smug. "It's always been 'bout the villain and the hero, and them _alone_. The rest of the people are jus' extras, they don't affect the _real_ story."

"Batman's _not_ alone though," Bruce told him, frowning. "There are people who do care, who try to help, they've proved that…"

He was cut off by a burst of cackling laughter that, for the first time in weeks, made his hair stand on end.

"You think this city is, uh, full of good people?" Jack wheezed. Bruce glared at him. He ignored it, and went on, "You wanna know what _really_ happened on the ferries that night? I had cameras up, I saw it. They put it to a vote. They voted, all nice an' orderly, and decided to blow up the other side, and the only reason they didn't was 'cause no one wanted to be the one to hit the switch. They were ready and willing to kill hundreds of others to save their own miserable lives, and they didn't 'cause, ah, no one wanted the _blood_ on their hands. They didn't decide to be _noble_. They weren't willing to wield the knife themselves, but they were willing to watch someone else do it and pat 'em on the back afterwards."

"They still weren't willing to kill," Bruce snapped. "They're good people."

Jack smirked.

"Who was it who, ah, said that the only thing evil needed to succeed was for _good people_ to do nothin'? Sounds like a good case of doin' nothing!"

_Good people doing nothing_... that was almost exactly what Rachel had said to him, so long ago…

His point hit too close to home.

"I refuse to believe that," Bruce growled. It couldn't be true, there were good people in Gotham, he'd staked his life on this city, he had to know his faith was justified…

Jack quirked his eyebrows.

"Ya don't believe me? I've still got the video, I can show ya."

Bruce had no doubt he did. Somehow, that made it worse. The thought of the Joker keeping a video of people who thought they were going to die, watching it over and over and laughing at their agony, made him nauseous.

The revulsion Batman had always felt for the clown, conspicuously absent the past week, rose up suddenly, threatening to choke him.

"I don't want to see it," he snarled. Jack regarded him coolly.

"No need to get _snippy,_ I can take a hint."

"Oh really?" Bruce snapped. "I was under the impression that you didn't notice anything more subtle than an explosion!" He knew he was going too far, but he couldn't stop himself, didn't really _want_ to stop himself.

"Oh, let's see…_who_ is it that's got the most expensive car in the city, changes girlfriends like other people change underwear, and, ah, routinely strings mobsters up over fucking _searchlights_? Ya call that _subtlety_?"

"At least I'm not the crazy one with a sick sense of humor and a hacked-up face!" Bruce snapped. A moment later, he could tell from Jack's expression that he'd crossed some sort of line.

"Well fine," Joker snarled, standing up. "If that's how you're gonna be, I _don't_ think I really wanna hang around!"

Jack stalked off into the shadows, face twisted into a scowl despite the perpetual smile carved into his features. Bruce watched him leave, then rested his head in his hand. He felt suddenly exhausted. The space behind his eyes was beginning to throb dully. His thoughts were scattered and drifting, and the only one he could bring into focus was, _and it had been such a good day too…_

_6767676767676767_

"I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating"

~ Neil Gaiman

_6767676767676767_

_You didn't think it'd be all fluff, did you? They're Batman and the Joker, of course they're going to fight, and often. Question is whether they can work it out or not…_

…_please review? *ducks flying fruit*_


	9. Interruptions

_Just a heads up: I can't write accents. At all. Other than that…enjoy._

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And I have known the eyes already, known them all—  
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,  
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,  
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,  
Then how should I begin  
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?  
And how should I presume?

~_The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,_ T. S. Eliot

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Bruce's day off, and the subsequent fight, had come on a Thursday.

Friday, still annoyed, Bruce Wayne attended a board meeting and a gallery opening, his mind only half-focused on the people around him. Batman prevented a few muggings, failed to find any of the mob meetings he had been looking for, and saw absolutely no sign of the Joker.

Saturday, he had worked through most of his irritation, was regretting what he'd said, and was thoroughly missing Jack. Batman still saw no sign of the Joker.

Sunday, he had decided to apologize to Jack…only to realize that he had no way of getting in touch with him, and no idea where to find him. The situation was utterly out of his hands.

Monday, he was getting restless, waiting for Jack to make an appearance. He must realize why Bruce wasn't contacting him; surely he would show up soon?

Tuesday, Bruce was becoming convinced, much to his regret, that it was over, and he had ruined everything with that stupid argument. He made a belated resolution to keep a better hold on his temper.

Wednesday, quite against his will, he went to a party.

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Bruce struggled to keep his expression of utter boredom under control as he raised his glass in a toast to the new heiress of the Kaney fortune. Her father's speech wound to a close, and he hurried away, eager not to be cornered by more well-meaning acquaintances. The very last thing he wanted to do right now was socialize.

He surreptitiously checked his watch. Nine o'clock. Better give it another hour before he left; the whole point of this was to be seen, after all. Normally, he could fake an interest in the discussions of politics and finances, but tonight, he had even less patience than usual with the Gotham elite. He just wanted to be left alone. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option for the city's most eligible bachelor.

Alfred had insisted he make a public appearance. He hadn't really taken much convincing, eager for anything to occupy his suddenly limitless time. Now though, dodging yet another bachelorette thrilled to pieces to see him without a date, he really wished he hadn't come. Parties were no place for Bats.

Bruce found a relatively out-of-the-way spot next to a Japanese screen and did his level best to fade into the garishly painted silk behind him. People might wonder why Gotham's resident playboy wasn't out socializing. Let them wonder. Maybe they'd think he was avoiding a vengeful ex-girlfriend.

God, this was such a waste of time. Rachel was right, this wasn't him at all. This was just a disguise to give Batman the freedom he needed for his nighttime jaunts. And now he was stuck here, putting in the time to maintain his disguise.

He wondered idly if anyone actually enjoyed these things, or if they all acted the part of the delighted guest as much as he did. Not that he was doing a very good job of acting tonight. He'd just have to hope that no one noticed, or if they did, that they'd write it off to a rich brat sulking, or something of the sort.

A sudden thought made him smile bitterly. _I wonder if I'm not the only one here leading a double life…_

He amused himself for a few minutes, imagining the various stuffed shirts and trophy wives around him as masked superheroes and villains. Monocle Man, Gucci Girl, The Armani Avenger… It didn't make for a very impressive list.

These people seemed so... flat. The women were like porcelain dolls with their lovely, blank faces, the men overdrawn caricatures of people. There was nothing beneath the surface. He had always gotten that impression, but it had simply been heightened after spending time around someone as fascinatingly bizarre as Jack.

Jack. Bruce fought back the urge to groan. Why did he have to be brainless enough to lose his temper? He finally found a friend he didn't have to maintain an act with, and immediately ruined everything just because he couldn't watch his mouth! He'd known friends would be in short supply, but it was especially unpleasant losing one of the few you _had_ managed to find. He felt more alone than ever now.

He was dying to get home and change into Batman. What he needed right now was simply to get out on the street, push himself to his physical limits, work off some of this tense energy, do something _worthwhile_. Besides, as Batman, he stood a better chance of finding Jack…

As though that thought had worked as a charm, he suddenly thought he saw a glimpse of dirty-blond hair from across the room. Heart suddenly pounding, he craned his neck, trying to follow the figure…but it had vanished before he could get a good look.

He knew it couldn't have been Jack, but he still felt oddly disappointed. If truth be told, he had expected Jack to show up at some point over the past week. He hadn't thought one fight would be enough to end whatever had started. But if Jack had decided it was over, not much he could do, especially when he didn't even know where to look… Still, he couldn't help but scan the crowd for any sign of him, utterly pointless as he knew it was.

His wandering eyes caught sight of a cluster of European beauties…exactly the kind of women Bruce Wayne would like. He hadn't picked up any rising starlets in a while, and the tabloids were starting to get suspicious. _Probably best to get back into the dating game,_ he thought glumly, especially now that it seemed things with Jack were over…

He began picking his way haphazardly through the crowd, only to find himself cornered by Smithson, one of the last people he wanted to encounter.

If Bruce's earlier comparison of the men to caricature drawings was to be carried even farther, Smithson was the natural conclusion. Everything, from his fiercely patterned red suit pulled tight over a bulging belly to his corpulent, weather-beaten face, was larger than life. Every sentence he uttered was accompanied by expansive gestures from a hand currently clenched around a brandy snifter - not that his words needed the emphasis. He had a rich, honking voice that could be heard from every corner of the room and was best described as plummy.

In spite of this, he really was a nice enough fellow, and at another time Bruce might have enjoyed his company. Right now though, Bruce was feeling distinctly antisocial, and Smithson's over-the-top manner was simply grating. Futile as he knew it was, Bruce quietly prayed he would be brief.

"Ah, Bruce! It's been too long!"

"Yes, it has," Bruce agreed, smiling through his teeth. He was beginning to get a pounding headache.

"I've got someone here you simply _must_ meet," Smithson boomed, looking around for his companion, "if I can find her…ah! Here we are! Bruce, this is Vicki Vale, an internship student at one or another of the newspapers, can never remember which one…"

Seemingly out of nowhere, a pretty brunette in a blue dress appeared at his side. She smiled at him apologetically, tipping her head slightly at the still-chattering Smithson. Bruce smiled back, more out of obligation than any sense of genuine amusement.

"Nice to meet you," she murmured, her voice oddly low, but very pleasant. "Especially after hearing so _much_ about you." Bruce felt his heart sink even farther. Another girl hoping he'd fall instantly in love with them.

"I hope it's good things you've been hearing," he told her, voice carefully light, scanning the room for exits.

"Nothing but."

"Lovely, isn't she?" Smithson rumbled absentmindedly, catching sight of a friend across the room. "Quite brilliant too, thought she'd get on well with that CEO of yours, Fax, sorry, Fox…must dash I'm afraid, I'll leave you two to get better acquainted…"

And with that, Smithson bustled off, leaving Bruce alone with Vicki.

She smiled eagerly. Bruce tensed, feeling very much like a rabbit that had just been told to get acquainted with a fox.

"So," she began, eyes dancing over his face, "does Wayne Enterprises have any plans for new camera designs or imaging equipment?"

Whatever Bruce had been expecting, it wasn't that.

"_Excuse me_?"

"Are there any new camera designs planned?" she asked, looking slightly crestfallen. "Photography's a hobby of mine, and my Wayne Enterprise camera's my favorite, I was hoping they'd be coming out with an updated version. Since you own the company, I thought you might know…"

"Well," Bruce told her, still surprised, but wearing his first genuine smile of the evening, "_that's_ not a question I get often. Now that you mention it though, my friend Fox _is_ working on a prototype lens for night shots…"

To his surprise, he found himself warming to their conversation, and actually enjoying the company of someone besides Alfred for the first time in a week. Vicki was intelligent, funny, quick-witted, pretty, and apparently had no interest in his billionaire status, which was a refreshing change. She was also, unfortunately, not at all the type of girl Bruce Wayne would date.

This party _was_ about keeping up appearances, Bruce decided reluctantly. He regretfully excused himself, after promising to put her in touch with Fox. _Even if Batman doesn't fly tonight, I'll have done at least one good deed,_ he thought sardonically as he went to dutifully flirt with the knot of rich and vapid Italian duchesses he had spotted earlier.

They fell silent as he approached, their expressions politely curious, eyes appraising. A wintry blonde eyed him inquisitively, her slim fingers wrapped around the crystal stem of a champagne flute. The sudden hush was unsettling, and Bruce fought the urge to glance around, checking for any sneak attacks. What was routine and necessary as Batman was unacceptable for a billionaire playboy. He had to remember where he was…

"Evening, ladies," he interjected with his best brainless billionaire smile. "What do you think of the party?"

It was too easy. They were only too eager to accept his tactless advances, flowing seamlessly to integrate him into their group. There was no challenge to it. Any one of them was his for the asking, and he didn't really want any of them. It was too _simple_. Nothing worthwhile was ever so easy. The Joker never made it easy, he thought morosely, and that was the way it should be. When you did win, then you knew that it meant something, that it was a victory you had thoroughly earned, not a consolation prize handed out to the next trust fund brat that walked by…

He felt himself slipping again, and had to fight to keep his mind to the task at hand. Find a date, make sure you're seen in public, keep up the act. Treat it like a Batman mission. Just get it done.

Forcing his concentration back to the party, he proceeded to flirt very openly and obviously. Jack was right. Subtly was not his strongest point. As he chatted, he tried to gauge whether any of the women might be worth getting to know beyond the few appearances that his disguise required. To his disappointment though, none of them seemed like the kind he wanted to strike up a friendship with. The few that might have actually had personalities were too shy to speak, and the rest didn't have a single intelligent comment between them. Really, was it that impossible to talk about something besides your social agenda, fashion, and the weather? Even bringing up Batman again would have been preferable.

Oh well. All this meant was that instead of getting some relatively pleasant company, he would just earn a few more days of safety in the spotlighted obscurity of the tabloid pages. And for that, any of these women would do.

One in particular, the ice-pale blonde, seemed especially interested in him. She introduced herself as Beatrix Guidicelli, a name that was vaguely familiar to Bruce, though he couldn't think where he'd heard it. Anyway, it didn't matter, he decided. This was just for show, it didn't matter which of them he chose. Miss Beatrix was as good as any.

"How long are you staying in Gotham, Miss Guidicelli?" he asked with another light bulb smile. Beatrix answered with a sultry smile of her own.

"Three weeks," she purred. "I am staying to visit some old friends, and I would love the chance to…get to know you."

"Tomorrow?" Bruce asked quickly. The sooner he could be back in the tabloids, the better. A trip to Gotham's most prestigious restaurant should do it. "We could meet for dinner…"

"Alas, no," she groaned. "I have plans for tomorrow. Aren't there any other days?"

"Well," he said, still beaming vacantly, "I'm free Satur…" His voice trailed off as he caught sight of a lanky form with dark blond hair, standing motionless across the room.

"Saturday at the Ocelot?" Beatrix insisted, latching onto his arm.

"Yeah, sure," he replied absently, completely unaware of what he'd just agreed to. The single glimpse of that figure had derailed his train of thought as effectively as a metric ton of TNT squarely in the middle of the tracks with the Joker holding a lit match. Beatrix glared at him, certain, and correctly so, that she was now being ignored.

Bruce Wayne stared at the figure. There was something horribly familiar about it; the way it moved…it looked like…but that was impossible. He wouldn't, would he? Even _he_ wouldn't risk that…right?

His mind answered for him.

_Yes, he most certainly would._

He had thought he'd seen someone earlier…but he'd thought it was just a trick of the light. He had to know. It had looked so much like Jack, but there was no way to be sure…he had to find whoever that was, had to see. If it _was_ Jack…_please let it be Jack_.

Ignoring Beatrix's irate protests and not offering a word of explanation, he found himself striding across the ballroom, mind entirely bent on finding that one person.

Bits of half-heard conversations swirled around him as he made his way through the room as quickly as etiquette allowed.

"Well if I hadn't seen it myself…"

"Then her cousin told her…"

"…and a shame about the Isleys, eh?"

"Been to Metropolis, simply the most _gorgeous_ dress…"

He paid them no mind. Everything around him had retreated somewhere into the back of his mind, paling in comparison with his need to know, to see for himself.

He made it almost halfway across the room before his luck gave out. Mumbling a suitably embarrassed 'sorry,' he attempted to step around a group of conversers…only to find the group opening to encompass him. By the time he'd unscrambled some of his wandering thoughts, it was just a little too late. For the second time that evening, he found himself drawn into a conversation he wanted no part of.

"…such a nice boy, and such a good family too, the Elliotts, pity about the parents, and the son vanished around the same time as our Mr. Wayne here. No idea where Thomas might've gone, eh, Bruce?"

Bruce politely disentangled himself, assuring them that he couldn't possibly have any idea what had happened to Thomas Elliott. His mind was still focused on catching up with that figure across the room…except that in the short time his back had been turned, whoever it was had vanished again.

He scanned the room, eyes narrowed. Most of the guests were busy socializing, seeing and being seen, but he had more than a sneaking suspicion that this particular visitor wouldn't be found in one of the many small groups across the room. A lone figure was an oddity, he should be easy enough to spot…

The figure noticed him coming and vanished between two clumps of somber-looking businessmen. Bruce hurried after him. This had turned into a chase, and he felt Batman rise to the challenge, hastening him after his quarry, entertaining no thoughts other than the hunt. Just enough Bruce Wayne remained to maintain the mask, but it was Batman who was really in control now, predatory and hounding.

The figure paused a moment and glanced behind. Bruce took the opportunity to close the gap between them, stepping politely past a bevy of beautifully coiffed women, a hunter hidden under a thin veneer of refinement. He had to end this _soon_.

Bruce finally caught up with him next to the Japanese screen he'd been skulking near earlier. As good as Batman was, he wouldn't have made it if the man hadn't been turned the other way, looking for his shadow in the wrong direction.

Bruce took a cautious step closer. All he could see was the back of his head…

The man tensed, seeming to sense his pursuer, and made a movement as though to dart away again. Without thinking, Bruce pushed him into the shadow cast by the bulky screen. It was very out of character for Bruce Wayne; he'd been reacting on instinct and years of training, letting the mask slip. It was a chance, but one he was willing to take.

If he was wrong…he'd apologize, spout a few improbable excuses about thinking he had recognized an old friend, rely on his reputation to smooth the edges over. If he was right…if he was right, it would be more difficult.

The excuses already rising to his lips, he caught the man's shoulder, spinning him around.

Yes, it was Jack. Unkempt and scarred, eyes glittering, he looked half-feral, especially among the impeccably groomed Gotham bluebloods. Admittedly, he'd done a good job of hiding it, with his hair mostly brushed and the scars all but hidden under skillfully applied makeup, but it was only a matter of time before someone looked too closely. It was a dire risk.

Bruce's immediate, relieved impulse was to hug him, but he pushed that down. Not here, not now, not surrounded by people… Instead, he contented himself with a smile.

Jack did not look quite so pleased.

"Ya weren't supposed to notice me," he said flatly, arms crossed.

"Yeah, great to see you too," Bruce muttered. "I'm glad you came back," he whispered, "but… why at a party? Aren't there better places to make up?" Preferably somewhere a little more private, for one…

"Had to keep an eye on you. You didn't really think I'd _share_ you, did ya?" he asked incredulously, indicating the duchess across the room trying to catch Bruce's eye. His eyes narrowed.

"Who's _she_?"

"No one," Bruce said quickly. "I just met her. I was going to…" His voice trailed off, and he looked slightly startled. The expression didn't sit well on his handsome face. "I _think_ I might have a date with her Saturday," he said finally, voice numb.

Jack opened his mouth to tell Bruce _exactly_ what he thought of that idea, but bit back his reproaches as Beatrix stalked towards them, looking every inch nobility, dress shimmering lightly.

"Why, Mr. Wayne, that was rude. Aren't you going to introduce me to your _friend_?" she asked, eyes lingering on Bruce just a little too long. She put an overly familiar hand on Jack's arm, and stood close enough to him that he could feel the warmth of her skin even through his suit and her gossamer dress. He immediately pulled away, looking irritated. Bruce noted his reaction interestedly.

_So he doesn't mind getting in other people's faces, but he hates being touched in return._

"This is…Jacob," he said finally, fighting the insane urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. "A friend of mine. We met while I was traveling."

"How fascinating," she breathed. "Where are you from?"

"Glasgow," Jack said shortly. Bruce could tell he was itching to do something, anything, to shift the focus of those ice-blue eyes away from him.

_He doesn't like people noticing him while he's Jack_, he thought suddenly. Well, around Bruce Wayne, that might be tricky.

Where the Joker had to be the center of attention at all times, Jack stuck to the edges, content to observe. In perfect contrast, it was Batman who lurked in the shadows while Bruce Wayne was the center of the Gotham galaxy. And anyone around him was simply drawn into orbit.

"Odd…you haven't much of an accent," Beatrix said, scrutinizing his face. It was only a matter of time before she noticed the slight unevenness of the skin around his mouth…

Bruce decided to step in.

"So I'll see you Saturday," he said lightly, a polite but clear dismissal. "Six o'clock at the Ocelot." Beatrix took the hint. She nodded sulkily and left to rejoin her friends, who immediately clustered around her.

"Now that that's out of the way," Bruce muttered, taking care to keep his voice down, "can we…"

His voice trailed off yet again as he caught sight of Max Shreck looking just a little too interested in what the Prince of Gotham was doing tucked away in a corner, and his eyes narrowed imperceptibly. He knew Shreck's thriving manufacturing business was just a front for hidden mob deals, but he couldn't prove anything, and neither he nor Batman could take any steps until he had proof.

Jack noticed his scrutiny, and was about to ask him about it, when he noticed yet another well-meaning acquaintance headed their way. Instead, he filed it away in a corner of his mind to ask about later.

"Might be a good idea to continue this conversation _somewhere else_," he said pointedly, glancing at the approaching blueblood. They hadn't gotten over their fight by any means, but it was next to impossible to have a proper argument when people kept inviting themselves into the conversation. Until they could get somewhere they could talk freely, the fight would have to be put on hold.

Bruce nodded his assent. They had to finish this, one way or another.

"I'll meet you there, unless you want a ride?"

"I'll find my own way," Jack muttered, melting back into the crowd.

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"I don't want whatever I want. Nobody does. Not really. What kind of fun would it be if I just got everything I ever wanted just like that, and it didn't mean anything? What then?"

~ Neil Gaiman

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_I'm betting most of you know this, but the scars Joker has around his mouth are known as a Glasgow Grin, which explains his response to Beatrix's question._

_I could sing! Finals are over, Dark Knight is out, Blagojevich finally got arrested...life is good. :)_


	10. Normal, Illinois

_**A/N: **__I didn't think I'd get another chapter up before the holidays hit, but here it is. Merry Christmas!_

_Mostly dialogue, unfortunately. Next chapter will be back to normal._

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"Memory is the great deceiver. Perhaps there are some individuals whose memories act like tape recordings, daily records of their lives complete in every detail, but I am not one of them. My memory is a patchwork of occurrences, of discontinuous events roughly sewn together: The parts I remember, I remember precisely, whilst other sections seemed to have vanished completely."

~ Neil Gaiman

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Bruce waited a few minutes so that no one at the party would see him leave with Jack, then pursued his irritated lover out the door. He knew the confrontation to come would be one to rival any that Batman and the Joker had experienced, but he nonetheless felt relieved. Now at least he had some control over what happened, and wasn't just sitting there, waiting uselessly.

He made it back to the penthouse in record time, but Jack had still managed to beat him there.

"Ah, you made it," he acknowledged sarcastically, lounging across one of the armchairs. Bruce could tell by his expression that the unspoken truce they'd had was over.

"So," Jack said silkily, rising from the chair with deadly feline grace. His tone was carefully, studiedly light. Unbidden, the image of a knife wrapped in gossamer sprang into Bruce's mind. "Tell me. Who. The fucking _hell_. Was. _She_?"

"I _told_ you," Bruce said, rather more irritably than he'd meant to, "I just met her! The gossip columns were getting suspicious, and when you didn't show up…"

"Oh, so now it's my fault?" Jack growled suddenly, cutting him off. He looked angrier than Bruce had ever seen him. His hands were coiled into fists and he was hunched over, as though ready to pounce.

"I didn't say that," Bruce snapped. He was more annoyed at himself than he was at Jack, for letting this escalate into a full-blown fight again. He just wanted this _done_.

"Well, what _did_ ya say then?"

"I _said_," Bruce snarled, "that since I didn't know where you were, I thought it was time to update my disguise! That's all she is, a disguise!"

"Looked awfully friendly for a _disguise_," he hissed.

"Oh, so that's _my_ fault that she's falling all over me?"

"Well, if you weren't such an idiot playboy!"

"I _have_ to be!" Bruce snapped back. "D'you think I _like_ having half the girls in the city scheming to get me to propose on sight? D'you think I _like_ standing there grinning like an idiot when I could be out doing something useful?" All his anger and frustration, his annoyance at his own uselessness, came pouring out now, in a single great tidal wave of misplaced temper.

"Well if you hate it so _much_," Jack sneered resentfully, eyes narrowed, "why didn't you just _leave_? You coulda called me, I was waiting for ya…"

"I would've," Bruce interjected, equally indignantly, "_if_ I knew where to reach you! I mean, what am I supposed to do when I want to talk to you, put a Joker signal on the roof?"

For a long moment, Jack simply stared at him, at a loss, before his thin frame began shaking. It was another long moment before Bruce recognized it as laughter.

"Better start buildin' that Joker signal, Brucey," he giggled finally. "Looks like I hid _too_ well."

Bruce saw the funny side of it and began chuckling as well. Some of the tension in the room eased away.

"Maybe I should ask Gordon where he got his," he suggested, smirking. "He might be able to recommend a supplier or something. I'm glad you're back," he added, now serious. "I missed you, I thought you'd decided it was over…"

"Well, I jus' couldn't _let you go_," Jack told him sardonically. "Even if I am still pissed at you after our little…spat." He was getting far too addicted for his own good. Sooner or later - probably later - he'd have to end this, or it would go too far and he would be stuck. But not tonight.

"I'm sorry," Bruce said honestly. "It was a stupid thing to say, I should've thought about it first…"

"Well, hacked-up face is just a fact," Jack shrugged, "and I'm no politician, I don't penalize for statin' the facts. Sick sense of humor…that's _your_ opinion, I know a few who'd, ah, disagree. But I'm _not_ crazy."

He wasn't…but he could be. He'd forgotten things before, _big_ things, life-changing things, gone as though they had never entered his brain in the first place. Sometimes things started to slip away, and he could feel them going, and feel that he was walking alone a needle-thin rail, with crazy on one side and genius on the other, waiting to slip and see which one he landed in. Since he'd become the Joker though, things seemed to stay where they were supposed to be. He knew what made the difference: Batman.

The Bat was the keystone that tied it all together, the main focus of his life now. The simple fact that Batman existed defined his own role. If he forgot about _this_, then he really would be crazy. Screaming, sobbing, gibbering, gnaw your own wrists open, drugged to high heaven crazy. He wouldn't let that happen. He refused to be crazy. Crazy was for _other_ people, people who couldn't handle reality.

Bruce was saying something.

"Huh?" Jack asked with all of his usual tact.

Bruce shook his head, but he was smiling.

"I said, I'm starting to think you really aren't crazy."

"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, Bats," he replied sarcastically. "After I go through all the trouble of crashing a party for you…"

"Oh yes, it's _such_ an honor when the Joker gatecrashes."

"Well, if you'd, ah, _prefer_ I _didn't_ show up…"

"I never said that," Bruce said lightly. God, it felt so good just to be able to talk like this, with all the masks off, speaking with almost painful honesty. He was struck yet again by the contrast between the company he'd been keeping only an hour ago and the man he was with now: Jack said _exactly_ what he meant, while the Gotham elite had to circle a point like a hunting shark before they said anything worth listening to. "I'm glad you came tonight. But considering what happened the _last_ time you showed up at one of my parties…"

"Well, I gave 'em all a night to remember," Jack grinned. "They can't say your parties are _boring_."

"Sometimes," Bruce answered, his voice wry, "I think I could handle a little boring."

_That_ stumped him. There were plenty of things Jack could do, but boring was not one of them. He got the uneasy feeling that Bats knew that too. If this was to continue, Bruce would have to be able to accept that this wasn't and never would be normal, and all expectations to that effect could be left at the door. If this was to continue. And Jack did, absolutely, want it to continue.

He'd have to get a rein on that damn mouth of his then. Most of the time, he could say whatever he felt like. It wasn't as though he actually cared what anybody thought of him, and chances were good that the people he'd just offended would be dead soon anyway. But he didn't want to irritate Batsy _too_ much. He knew it would have to end eventually, but he wanted to keep it going for as long as he could. This _mattered._

"There won't be a whole lotta romance," Jack said abruptly, watching him for a reaction. "I jus' don't do the whole, your eyes glitter like… I dunno, like an explosion, type thing. Romance is _normally_ part of the whole dating deal and all, but, uh, frankly… I don't think I can pull off _normal_."

For a moment, Bruce was simply dumbstruck. Then, it was his turn to begin laughing, much to Jack's annoyance. He'd been _trying_ to take a leaf out of Batsy's book and be serious for once!

"I'm not sure that qualifies as _romance_," Bruce chuckled eventually, "but I can live without it, either way. And I knew when I became Batman that Normal would be a town in Illinois, not something that could be applied to my life. I _will_ have to date a few starlets to keep up appearances though," he said, more seriously now. "You're going to have to be able to deal with that."

Jack's scarred lips twisted as he scowled. "Fine," he growled reluctantly.

"It's just for show," Bruce told him soothingly, stepping closer. "I just have to make a few public appearances with a model hanging off my arm, that's all."

"That had _better_ be all," Jack glared. "Seein' her hangin' all over you at the party…"

Bruce was struck by a sudden thought.

"How'd you get here ahead of me? I only left a minute or two after you, and I'm pretty sure I broke every speed limit in the city getting here…"

Jack smirked.

"Way to change the subject, Bats. I, ah, borrowed a car."

Bruce couldn't believe his ears. Well, he _could_, he just didn't particularly want to.

"You stole a car?"

And this had been going so well too, better than he'd been hoping.

"No," Jack frowned, "weren't ya _listening_? I _borrowed_ it."

"I don't see a difference," Bruce said flatly. "Whatever you call it, it's a crime."

"You're one to talk," Jack said indignantly. Bruce stared at him.

"What do you mean? I don't go around carjacking!"

"Well, you wreck cars all the time, roll right over 'em with your Batmobile thing..."

"It was called the Tumbler," Bruce said wryly. Jack ignored him.

"How can you criticize me when I just borrow 'em? The owner'll get it back _eventually,_ I just use it for the night."

"It's still _wrong_."

"Bats," he sighed, "compared to all the other stuff I do, you're worried about a little _carjacking_? I _am_ a criminal, Brucey. If your, uh, _morals_ can't handle that, I might as well jus' leave now."

Bruce ran a hand through his hair, defeated. As much as he _hated_ to admit it, Jack had a point. He had caused too much damage himself to go lecturing someone else. _Remove the plank from thine own eye first…_

"As long as you put it back in the morning," he said grudgingly.

"Oh, and I s'pose you're gonna _enforce_ that?" Jack asked. He still looked none too pleased, but less annoyed now than he had been.

"Only if I have to," Bruce whispered, wrapping his arms around him. He'd had more than enough fighting, he just wanted it finished. "Can't let you off too easy, I wouldn't be doing my job."

"Gotta wonder how this is even working," Jack muttered, returning the embrace. "It's great, but it's just plain _weird_, even for a guy like me."

"Well, we got through our first fight," Bruce told him. "Plenty of couples never even manage that."

"_Truuuuuue._ We're not really your, ah, average couple," Jack observed, leaning closer and claiming the Dark Knight's lips. It'd been too long. God, was he ever addicted.

"Too right," Bruce muttered back, but then Jack began kissing him in earnest, and he temporarily forgot that mouths could be used for talking.

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Bruce knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that in a few minutes he would have to get out of bed and get ready to turn the reins over to Batman. For now though, with Jack settled contentedly next to him, one arm draped possessively across his chest, he was simply too comfortable to consider moving.

He shifted, and Jack stirred. His dark eyes took in the rumpled bed sheets, and the various articles of clothing strewn across the room. He smiled languidly.

"Mmmm, what _will_ your fellow aristocracy think?" he chided teasingly, shifting even closer to Bruce. "Caught in bed with the city's resident freak, ya know…" He tutted. "Can't be good for your, ah, _image_."

"For want of a better way of putting this…" Bruce murmured, one hand settling on Jack's shoulder, "screw them. I really don't care what they think right now." This was _his_. They had no part in it, any more than they had a say in his life as Batman.

"Mmm, don't wanna screw them," Jack grinned, "wanna screw _you_."

Bruce decided not to comment on that, but hugged him closer anyway, hands tracing along the scars on his back. He was beginning to remember some of them, and the feel of the distorted skin under his fingertips was oddly soothing. It had been less than a week since he'd last seen Jack, but he had missed this so much, this sense of having someone who could see behind the mask and accepted what he saw. He couldn't help feeling considerably more cheerful than he had a few hours earlier. Strange, that the Joker had gone from being a headache to being a bright spot in an otherwise depressing week. Funny how life worked sometimes.

Funny. Like a clown.

Bruce groaned slightly, head falling back against the pillows.

"What's up, Bats?" Jack asked, smiling lazily. "Bat in the belfry?"

"No," Bruce informed the still-chuckling Joker. "Not a bat. A _clown_."

"_Gooood_," Jack purred, kissing him yet again. "This clown doesn't plan on leavin'."

"Good," Bruce echoed, kissing him back. He still had the uneasy feeling that this couldn't last, but for tonight, he would take whatever reassurances he could get.

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I don't need a life that's normal,  
That's way too far away.  
But something next to normal  
Would be okay.  
Yeah, something next to normal -  
That's the thing I'd like to try.  
Close enough to normal  
To get by.

~ _Maybe,_ **Next to Normal**

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_**A/N: **__Thanks for all the reviews! They're a lovely, guiltless pleasure at a time when my family's hell-bent on filling the house with Christmas cookies. As always, constructive criticism on how I can improve my writing is more than welcome._


	11. Lions and Bats

_**A/N:**__ After their fight, I decided to give them a chapter that was relatively fluffy. Main plot will continue next chapter. Yes, I do actually have a plot in mind for this, believe it or not! ;) This chapter is a direct result of watching Disney movies with my cousins right after watching Dark Knight._

_Random fact of the day: the word brunet refers to a man with brown hair, while brunette refers to a woman. Same with blond and blonde._

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"We are here and it is now. The way I see it is, after that, everything tends towards guesswork."

~ Terry Pratchett

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If asked, the vast majority of Gotham, and, indeed, the world, would have said Bruce Wayne was completely out of touch with real life. They would have been entirely wrong. Actually, Bruce made sure he knew what was going on in his city at any given moment. If there was a robbery or murder, he was among the first to know, and Batman was among the first to arrive. His devotion bordered on obsession at times, but short of listening to the police scanner twenty-four/seven, the news was the best way to stay up to date – Gotham news anchors seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to disasters. This was why there was a TV in nearly every room of the penthouse, every one of them set to news channels.

The one in the study, though, had gotten messed up. Someone, and Bruce had more than a sneaking suspicion of who, had switched it to a channel showing old horror movies, and he was having trouble resetting it.

Bruce probably could have just moved to the next room and watched the news there. He didn't particularly want to though. He liked the study, and he would have to reset the TV at some point, he might as just well do it now.

He was still searching for the newscast when Jack wandered in a few minutes later. Bruce wasn't too surprised. It had only been two days since they'd made up, and both of them were still reluctant to let the other out of their sight for more than a few hours at a time. This made their nighttime excursions rather difficult, but for tonight, they were off the hook. Yet another late autumn rainstorm had blown in, and the combination of gale-force winds, slippery concrete, lashing rain, and temperatures just barely above freezing had forced Batman to call it quits. It was only a little past one a.m., and he was already home.

It was frustrating, not being able to be out and active, but, as he fiddled with the remote, he had to admit he could use the sleep. The normally ineffective police were proving entirely too good at searching for Batman, and sleep was something that had been in increasingly short supply lately.

A moment later, Jack had sprawled out next to him on the leather couch, perfectly at ease.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Looking for the news," Bruce replied, watching him with interest. He never just _sat_. He might sprawl, flop, lounge, loll, laze, or recline, but he never _sat_. Jack, Bruce decided, was the only person he knew who could turn the relatively simple, usually passive act of resting your weight on a chair into a full-body activity.

"All right," Jack grinned. "You do that, an' I'll watch _you, _just in case ya do somethin' entertaining."

Bruce rolled his eyes and went back to flicking through the channels. Basketball games, an old action movie, a talking lion, a game show with a canned laughter track, a boxing match…wait, a talking lion?

He went back a few channels, just in time to hear the last chords of "Circle of Life" fade out. Ah. _The Lion King_.

"I haven't seen this in forever," Bruce commented, pausing a moment to watch the brightly colored graphics flit across the TV. Must be some twenty-odd years since he'd last watched a Disney movie. Jack stared at the screen in fascination.

"What _is_ this?" he asked as the animated lions assembled. Bruce gaped at him.

"Don't tell me you've never seen _The Lion King_!"

"Not that I r'member, anyway," he mumbled, still watching the old movie. "Can we watch _this_ instead?"

Which was how Bruce Wayne, billionaire by day, vigilante by night, Gotham City's public enemy number two, found himself watching a Disney cartoon with public enemy number one.

Jack, interestingly enough, seemed utterly mesmerized by it. He watched with rapt attention as Simba and Nala got chased into the Elephant Graveyard. The hyenas drew a low chuckle, but not much more than that. He was being unusually quiet. Bruce had never actually seen him sit still for so long.

"The colors in this are _great_," he said finally, just when Bruce was beginning to wonder if Jack had learned to sleep with his eyes open.

Jack never failed to surprise him.

"The _colors_?"

"Yep," Jack nodded. "Too many movies try to go monotone, an' it jus' doesn't _work_. Ya need a little color. Why d'you think I wear what I wear? Batboy was a nice, solid, _boring_ black, and, uh, Saredy-crow wasn't much better."

"I always just assumed you liked purple," Bruce told him, smiling.

"Well, yeah, I do," Jack admitted, "but I wear more than jus' purple. Red an' green and blue…"

"You haven't got _all_ the colors though," Bruce mused. "No yellow, for one thing…"

"I don't like yellow," he shrugged. "Too…_peppy_. Ugh. Makes me think of sunshine an' daisies and people being _cheerful_, an' all that crap."

"Orange then?"

"Only," Jack smirked, "for Halloween, and _never_ in clothes." Too much time in Arkham would ruin orange for anyone, and those jumpsuits were a particularly hideous shade of carroty red. He could think of so _many_ ways to improve them, but no on ever asked his opinion.

"Pink?" Bruce asked lightly.

Instantly, Jack scowled and muttered something under his breath about cotton candy. Bruce decided to drop the subject and went back to watching _The Lion King_ instead.

Jack might have liked the movie, but Bruce soon found himself focusing less and less on the animated lions, and more and more on the man next to him. It had been years since he'd last seen the cartoon, but he remembered most of the plot. He found Jack considerably more interesting to watch. Without the makeup smothering his face, his expressions were surprisingly subtle, and Bruce was pleased to find that he was learning to read Jack's features. That slight lift of the eyebrows meant he was interested, when he pursed his lips he was thinking, the edges of the scars twisting meant he was annoyed or frustrated…

He discovered, to his surprise, that he hardly noticed the scars anymore. They were just part of his face now, like his eyebrows or his nose. Now that the shock of their appearance had worn off, he found himself taking note of the rest of Jack's face, noticing that both of his ears were pierced, and the way his nose was slightly flattened, as though it had been broken.

The scars did still interest him though. He knew a fair bit about scars and scar tissue, having a number of them himself, and he knew that the younger you were when you got a scar, the more it faded as you grew older. The scars around Jack's mouth were badly healed and very, very obvious, so he couldn't have gotten them any earlier than age twenty or so, maybe late teens if you wanted to stretch it. At the same time though, scars like that must make it difficult to speak, or even move your mouth, and Jack seemed to have no problems talking. He must have had them for a few years then, long enough to get used to them and adapt.

Still lost in his thoughts, Bruce noticed a smudge of white paint that had resisted all of Jack's attempts at washing his face, and absently wiped it off. As he did though, he caught sight of Jack's nose, and stopped dead.

Freckles. Scattered across the bridge of his nose, the Joker had freckles. Not many, and they were very light, but still. You did _not_ expect the greatest criminal mastermind the city had ever seen to have freckles at all.

Up until now, in his mental dictionary, under the heading 'bizarre,' the memory of that one college party had taken pride of place. The one he had gone to by accident, with the English major, and the socks, and the octopus... Even by his standards, it was weird. Now though, he might have to reconsider.

He was sitting on the couch watching a Disney animation at two a.m. with the Joker, whom he was currently dating, whom he had suddenly noticed had freckles.

"Somethin' wrong, Bats?" Jack asked, noticing his scrutiny.

"No," Bruce said instantly. "Just thinking."

Jack shrugged and went back to watching the movie, and Bruce went back to watching him.

The study was one of the inner rooms in the penthouse, but Bruce could hear the continuing rainstorm, the pounding roar turned to a gentle tapping by the distance. Where a month ago it might have set his teeth on edge, now he enjoyed it. It seemed to have a soporific effect on both of them though. By the time the credits rolled, Bruce was yawning, and he thought Jack might possibly have been asleep.

"We sleepin' here, or are we gonna have to get up?" Jack mumbled, without opening his eyes.

Maybe not asleep then.

"Bedroom," Bruce yawned back. "Couch isn't big enough for both of us." Jack shrugged, and dragged himself off the couch and down the hall after him, still thinking about the cartoon.

Bruce might not have been watching the old movie, but Jack was, and from what he knew of Bruce Wayne's past, he couldn't help but notice certain…similarities. Bruce as a lion…well, it certainly wasn't the best comparison - he preferred chiroptera - but it was a workable metaphor.

The only problem was that the movie ended too soon. It never said what happened to Simba. He made a choice, he came home…and it ended. Assumedly, it all worked out, and he lived happily ever after with all his lion friends, a nice, pretty little fairy tale ending.

If there was one thing Jack was certain of, apart from knives are fun and Batman is even more fun, it was that there was no such thing as a fairy-tale ending. No way of telling how this story would end, but it would not be with a happily-ever-after-forever-and-ever-amen.

A sudden, rather unpleasant, thought came lancing through the haze of sleep. Joker existed because Batman existed. Without a Bat around, there wouldn't be a Clown Prince. But did it work the other way too, or was one villain as good as another? How much would it really affect the Batman if the Joker were gone for good? Bruce might miss Jack, but Joker and Batman, he wasn't sure about. And it seemed Bruce was still having problems with the reality of his dual identities. If Joker defined himself by his opposite, and his opposite wasn't sure who he was, what did it mean for Jack?

"Hey Brucey?" Jack mumbled, half asleep.

"Yeah?"

" You're Simba o' course, so duzzat make me Scar, or Timon?"

"Actually," Bruce smirked after a moment of thought, "I think that makes you Ed the hyena."

Jack managed a deranged cackle before his eyes shut completely.

A month ago, Bruce marveled as he climbed into bed, if he'd been asked that question, he'd have said Scar in a heartbeat. Now though, he wasn't so sure. Jack _was_ sadistic, and he was still the biggest villain Gotham's long and illustrious history of crime, but he wasn't the pure evil that Bruce had first thought. It wouldn't be fair to cast him as Scar straight off. But at the same time, he was much, much more than just the comic relief, or a tagalong sidekick. He was a different character entirely, a bizarre mix of the two: scars and laughter, villain and victim, friend and enemy, plotting and pratfalling, all rolled together in unequal measure to get…Bruce wasn't sure exactly what. Jack. The Joker. Some combination of the two. Just like he was now a combination of Bruce Wayne and Batman…

That was the last conscious thought he had for a while. Within seconds of collapsing into bed, he was enjoying one of the first untroubled rests he'd had in a week, lulled by the sound of rain.

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When Jack woke up a few hours later, it was to find that Bruce was still asleep next to him and the rainstorm was over. On an impulse, he checked the nearest clock. 5:16. Still early. Plenty of time left to pull off a prank. He'd been lazy these last few days, too busy sulking to be out causing chaos, and it was time to get back in the game. Gotham needed a wakeup call every now and again, and he was the perfect person to provide it.

He wasn't quite ready to get up though, not just yet, and allowed himself a long moment to drink in the sight of the man beside him. Bruce's normally impeccable hair was mussed, sticking up in odd tufts around his head like some demented brunet hedgehog. He looked much younger than when he was awake, with the lines in his face smoothed away by sleep. It was easier to see the carefree man he pretended to be. Jack traced a single finger across his chin, for so long the only feature he'd been able to see under the Batmask, before bringing it up to Bruce's slightly parted lips. Half the girls in this godforsaken city would kill for one kiss from those lips, and a chance with their owner. But they were _his_. His Bat. No one else's.

He leaned in closer, breathing in the unmasked Batman's scent. Bruce smelled like no one else he had ever encountered before, a peculiar blend of coffee, sweat, cologne, and leather. While Jack might not have enjoyed each of those smells on their own, mixed, they were surprisingly pleasant, and absolutely perfect for Batman.

Struck by a sudden thought, he checked the clock again, and relaxed. 5:25. He had time. He had another hour and a half before showtime; he could make it, if he got moving now. Time to become the Joker.

He emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, Gotham's Clown Prince of Crime from his boots to his seaweed green hair. After a week's break, he was ready for some action. Time to show this two-bit town just how inventive he could be.

Sliding the glass door open, he stepped out onto the balcony. He hadn't put his blazer or coat on yet, and the air was deliciously smooth and cool against his skin. When he inhaled, he could taste the sweet, cold tang of rainwater in the air. The storm must've only just ended.

The Gotham skyline, dazzlingly bright despite the late hour, drew his eyes. _Must be why Batsy chose this hangout,_ he decided, vaulting casually over the plexiglass safety rail to get a better look, _so he wouldn't be far from his beloved dumping ground we call a city._ Bats could never leave this place. He might tell himself that someday it would be over, someday he could disappear as quickly as he'd come, but Joker knew better. Bruce was tied to this hell on earth; he always would be. He'd made his mission to save the condemned city, and it would swallow him down without a second thought. He could never truly save it, and so he could never leave it. Batman couldn't put away the cowl.

The cold air began to feel too cold, the chill sinking in past his skin to the layer of muscle underneath. Without looking away from the gleaming, twisted skyline, Joker shrugged his coat on, still balanced on the wrong side of the railing.

He had to admit, it was beautiful. Seen like this, from far away, the whole city glittered like a jewel, the streets still pulsing with life in spite of how late – or early – it was. For a moment, it looked like any other city.

Sometimes, like now, he could almost understand whatever it was Bruce saw in this place. Gotham, he reflected idly, was like a bunch of children playing. There was nothing more beautiful, more innocent, and more perfect…provided you were watching it from a distance, and didn't get close enough to see the layer of inherent viciousness that ran through the beauty, corrupting it from the inside out.

Enough nostalgia, he decided finally. This city might be Bruce's heart and soul, but it was _his_ playground, and his latest misdemeanor was waiting. Time to expose a little of the corruption. Even Bats wouldn't be able to fault him for this one.

Probably.

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"I think I'll dismember the world and then I'll dance in the wreckage."

~ Neil Gaiman

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_**A/N:**__ Just so's you know, Bruce's octopus incident is borrowed from a story my cousin claims to have witnessed. I'm not just making it up off the top of my head._

_If you're wondering about Jack's aversion to pink and cotton candy, go read __**Could You Try To Mime It Out?**__ by Keeper-of-the-Cheese. Poor Jack. :D_

_Heath Ledger really did have pierced ears. You can see it in the screenshot where Joker's dressed as a policeman. Oh, and chiropteran is the classification for bats._


	12. Well What Do You Know

_**A/N: **__I take no credit for Joker's prank in this chapter. I had planned for him to do something completely different, but then I read one of the old Batman comics, Joker's Asylum, and this idea was far too much fun to pass up. The plot is taken almost directly from the comic, with adaptations to allow for Ledger Joker, my plot, and my own warped creativity._

_I just watched The Prestige, and I have to say…it was bizarre, watching Batman's butler prosecute him for killing Wolverine, while Gollum and Jareth the Goblin King built a Transporter. Further proof that I watch far too many movies._

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"Never trust a demon. He has a hundred motives for anything he does ... Ninety-nine of them, at least, are malevolent."

~ Neil Gaiman

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"Good morning, Gotham!" Summer Gleeson squealed into her microphone. "Welcome to another exciting round of _What Do You Know?_, Gotham City's greatest game show!" She paused for effect, perfectly aware that she'd just told a boldfaced lie. The tiny audience mostly ignored her. They were just here because they had nothing better to do.

In its halcyon days, _What Do You Know?_ had been worthy competition for the more popular daytime television shows, but those days had come and gone, and the dilapidated, clichéd series was on its way out. The ambiguity of the announcement didn't seem to deter Summer. She was simply thrilled to actually be on TV, never mind that it was too early in the morning for most of the city to be watching, never mind that the rundown studio was only half-filled. She continued her narration with undiminished gusto.

"Gotham's greatest game show, where contestants answer questions in different categories for fabulous prizes! Our competitors today are Miss Melissa Murphy and Mr. Dennis Beatt!"

She waved a manicured hand at the two dour-looking contestants seated on the side of the stage. Beatt, a flabby, ruddy-faced man with a blossoming mustache and eyes like a mouse's, bit back a yawn. Melissa glared at him and tried to kick him under the table, before brushing a lank strand of dark hair out of her face and turning her attention back to Gleeson.

"And now," Gleeson trilled delightedly, unaware of the exchange that had just taken place, "it is my very great honor to introduce our host for today, the celebrated Gotham artist…_Mr. Robert Pomrik_!"

She gestured to the right hand side of the stage, where a spotlight swung around to illuminate the door. The audience clapped indifferently, and…nothing happened.

"Mr. Pomrik!" she called a little louder, her enthusiasm dampening for the first time since she took the job. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go!

It's difficult to detect subtle emotions in applause, but she felt that the lukewarm clapping had a sardonic edge to it.

"Mr. Pomrik!" she repeated yet again, a note of hysteria touching her voice. Still no reply.

She caught sight of the small audience, most of whom had gone disconcertingly pale, and panicked.

"Not to worry," she said, voice rising with each syllable, "I'm _sure_ he'll be right…"

"…back," a low voice finished from directly behind her, before the microphone was yanked out of her grasp.

She turned around slowly.

"Scram," the Joker purred, his face very, very close to hers.

She scrammed.

"Well, ladies and gentle-_men_," Joker called, stepping forward to take her place in the spotlight, "since Mr. Pomrik's gone _missing_, it seems I'll be your host this morning! Now, some rules of the house!" He turned and strutted across the stage, twirling the microphone between his long fingers. "First off, please keep all hands, feet, elbows, guns, bombs, and knives to yourself. Second, remain in your seats at all times, or I'll, uh, be forced to detonate the bombs I planted outside the building!" Instantly, the people who had been edging towards the exits sat down again. He giggled.

"_That's_ better! Now, let the fun begin!"

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Gordon was just helping himself to his first coffee of the day when Denbrough skidded into the break room, his jacket askew and clutching a stitch in his side.

"Commissioner," he panted, "you need to see this…"

Gordon followed the anxiety-stricken rookie to the information center, wondering what exactly was going on this time. One look at the television monitor, and he got his answer.

This wasn't good. At all.

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Melissa and Dennis cowered as the Joker turned towards them, smiling.

"So, brave contestants… how are ya this fine morning?" They didn't answer.

"Oh, that's no good," he pouted, pulling a knife from his pocket and twirling it carelessly. "This is a _game_ show, innit? We're still playin'! If ya play along, ya might even come outta this in no more than two pieces!"

Beatt couldn't bring himself to answer, eyes cemented on that flashing silver blade.

"What'sa matter? Bat got your tongue?" He laughed hysterically at his own joke, and Melissa began sobbing quietly. She knew the Joker wouldn't let them out of this alive.

"Oh, shh shh shh shh," he crooned, patting her cheek tenderly. That Gleeson chick wasn't really his taste – too preppy and cheerful, not enough of a brain even to bother warping it – but this Melissa, with her limp, dog-poop colored hair and big watery doe's eyes, might prove interesting. "Well, if it'll make ya feel better, Dennis first then. Pick a category."

Beatt's eyes darted frantically around the scoreboard backdrop, looking for an easy topic to choose, before the Joker put out a hand to stop him.

"Hmm, these questions are a little…_boring_, aren't they?" he said thoughtfully. "Let's spice it up a little!" He waved his hand again, and the usual categories for song lyrics, baseball, etc. vanished, to be replaced by his 'improvements.'

"But…I d-d-don't know anything about th-th-th-theoretical astrophysics c-c-c-alculations!" Dennis stuttered, gaping, horrified, at the screen. Joker's wicked grin broadened.

"Well, then you'd better choose 'Obscure Russian Artists' or 'Extinct Animals of Ancient Syria,' hadn't ya?"

Dennis Beatt gawked at the scoreboard, gauging his chances. He knew that whatever he chose, he was doomed.

"Russian Artist," he said finally, face somewhere about same the shade of white as old porridge. Joker's grin stretched wider still, his mouth mirroring the scars.

"'Obscure Russian Artists' it is! Now, the first and _final_ question, worth, uh, Dennis here's _life_…who painted Screw Number Three?"

Beatt waited a few moments for his options to appear on the screen, as was the norm for game shows. They didn't.

"Something wrong?" the Joker asked sweetly. Dennis shook his head frantically, blinking sweat out of his eyes.

"Good, 'cause I'd _hate_ for somethin' to be _wrong_. It really gets under my skin when the, uh, the people around me aren't _happy_, ya know?"

Dennis nodded and tried to look happy as he searched frantically for an answer.

"Time's runnin' out," Joker told him gleefully. "Tick tock tick tock tick ten seconds left tock tick tock tick tock tick five seconds left tock tick tock tick _three_ tock _two_ tick…"

Panicking, Beatt shouted the first Russian-sounding name that popped into his head.

"Vladimir!"

"Nope, it, uh, it _wasn't_ Vladimir," the Joker crooned, fingering the wicked-looking knife. "I'm afraid you _lost_, Dennis."

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Somewhere behind the scenes, the show's producer, Austin Bretts, was not, in fact, panic-stricken, or even vaguely concerned. Actually, he was on cloud nine.

The news stations had already got wind of the Joker's sudden, sinister desire to host a game show, and had swarmed like sharks to a kill. As a result, his show was now being aired on every major channel in the city! Sure, it was being aired as a hostage situation, but so what? It was publicity! Viewings were higher than they had ever been before, and ratings had suddenly turned vertical. The owner of the station himself had called!

"It doesn't matter what the clown does," Austin laughed into his cell phone, while his horrified assistant looked on. "They all signed the release forms, we're not liable for anything that happens! Actually," he confided, lowering his voice, "I hope he _does_ kill someone. Our ratings are already higher than ever, if there's blood, they'll be through the _roof_!"

He flipped the sleek little mobile phone shut and went back to avidly watching the screen, waiting to see what the Joker would do to Beatt. His show had never been the biggest or most popular on the air, and money had been tight these last few months. He'd actually been considering shutting it down, and then, this! This could save his career!

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Beatt didn't have time to react before the Joker threw the knife. It sped out of his hand in a deadly, shooting star blur, headed straight for his face…and bounced off. Unable to believe he was still breathing, he raised a shaking hand to his forehead before cautiously prodding the knife with the very tip of his finger. It was rubber.

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"Whoah," Kip Hansen squealed, punching the air with a tiny fist. "Cool!" His mother pulled him onto her lap and continued staring fixedly at the screen. This was even better than the soap operas!

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"That was the warm-up round!" Joker announced delightedly, over the cheers and applause from the audience. "Now for the real deal! Soooooooooo, Miss Mel-_issa_, isn't it?" he cooed. "Pick yer poison!"

Dennis Beatt slipped into the shadows, faint with relief now that he was no longer in the spotlight, and Melissa hated him for it. It wasn't fair that she was the 'real deal,' she knew that. But she also knew that protesting or trying to fight the Joker would have about as much effect as attacking a T-Rex with a toothpick. No choice but to play his game…

She gulped, eyeing the new categories that had just appeared. The small audience held its collective breath. Would she be best off with 'Cuisine of Southern Bhutan,' 'Burial Customs of the Early Olmecs,' or 'Mating Habits of the Mangrove Crab'?

"Bhutan," she finally whispered, shaking like a leaf in a gale. Joker cupped a hand around his ear and leaned closer, eyes innocently wide.

"What's that? I couldn't hear ya, beautiful."

"Bhutan," Murphy said, a little louder. She could feel her heart beating painfully fast against her ribcage, as though trying to escape. She didn't blame it. She wanted to too.

"Still couldn't hear ya. Say, let's play this like baseball, shall we?" Joker asked, now tossing a grenade from hand to hand. "Three strikes, and, uh…you're _out_. So, one more time…what category do ya want?"

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"Dammit!" Gordon muttered, pacing around the squat brick building yet again. They hadn't been able to find the bombs the Joker claimed to have planted, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Worse, they hadn't been able to find a way into the studio either.

"Dammit," he muttered again, then turned to the bomb squad still combing the area for any trace of explosives. "Keep looking!" he called. That was all they _could_ do, was keep looking. He knew there would be no help from Batman, not in daylight, not when every cop in the city had orders to shoot him on sight. He was on his own, and if he made the wrong decision, it could mean the lives of everyone in that studio.

"You find anything, any bombs, any way in, _anything_, tell me immediately!"

One of the rookies, a girl named Montoya, had thought to bring along a laptop so they could keep an eye on the demonic gameshow. Gordon had no doubt that it was being broadcasted all over the city by now, and it didn't improve his mood at all.

_I try to protect this city_, he thought, watching the lavender outline of the Joker strut across the computer screen, _but how do you protect a city that attracts loonies like iron filings to a magnet, and destroys the ones who try to help?_

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Melissa took as deep a breath as the constricting tightness in her chest would allow and choked out, "Bhutanese cuisine." This time, she managed it at a relatively conversational level.

"_That's_ better," he said with some satisfaction. She felt the tightness around her chest, as though her torso had been wrapped in stiff rubber, ease a little. It came back full force with his next words.

"_Aaaand_, your question is…what popular Bhutanese dish is made with cheese and chili peppers?"

Murphy had no idea, but she had learned from Beatt's mistakes, and decided not to delay by looking for an answer that wasn't there.

"Cheesy peppers?"

The scars slashed across the Joker's face distorted and stretched as he smiled.

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Backstage, Austin and his assistant were fighting.

"It doesn't matter what he does, it doesn't affect us!" he hissed.

"But he's going to kill her!" Michelle whispered, clutching his arm. "We have to do _something_!" He growled and wrenched it out of her grasp.

"Look, I don't care if he cuts the contestants, audience, and camera crew into little quivering hunks of dog food! _We're not responsible!_"

He ignored her horrified expression and went back to making sure every second of this glorious disaster was properly recorded. This was Gotham, and you looked out for yourself, and yourself _only_. The sooner this sappy little idealist realized that, the longer she'd survive.

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In a kitchen a few miles from the studio, Alfred Pennyworth's hand clenched around a spatula. The police were already at the studio, but the Joker had done a good job of sealing it, and there was no way in. He just hoped that the lunatic remembered the bargain he'd struck with Batman.

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"No, I'm sorry," Joker told Melissa Murphy sweetly. "That's _incorrect_. Catch!"

He tossed the grenade, cackling madly, and she screamed and ducked. It bounced harmlessly off her shoulder and hit the ground, where it fizzed and spouted thick clouds of acrid green smoke, but failed to explode. He laughed harder.

"Oh," he giggled, watching the stunned disbelief spread across her face like an oil spill, "looks like it's your, uh, lucky day! But before I go…" he glanced around at the audience, still rooted to their seats, and sucked on his scars. "…I've got one more question now, for _all_ of ya! What's black an' blue an' red all over, an' is a producer on this show?"

He stepped aside so that the audience had an uninhibited view of the screen behind him, and a moment later it flickered into life. The picture was grainy and choppy, but still very recognizable, and the audio was crystal clear.

"It doesn't matter what the clown does. They all signed the release forms, we're not liable for anything that happens!" the blurry image of Bretts exclaimed. "Actually, I hope he _does_ kill someone. Our ratings are already higher than ever, if there's blood, they'll be through the _roof_!" The crowd began to shift in their seats and hiss angrily.

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"Oh shit," Austin breathed, noticing the video camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling for the first time.

"Serves you right," Michelle told him with some satisfaction, as he tried the door and found it locked from the outside.

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The jerky video reel fast forwarded, and the irate murmur grew into a roar as Bretts snapped, "Look, I don't care if he cuts the contestants, audience, and camera crew into little quivering hunks of dog food! _We're not responsible!_"

"Bastard!" someone shrieked, a cry the rest of the throng willingly took up.

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Bretts stared at the monitor, face ashen as the crowd began scream for his blood. The dreams he'd entertained only a few minutes ago, of reinventing his entire career, now seemed like memories from another lifetime.

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Joker watched his handiwork, satisfaction etched into every line of his face as the crowd began to work itself into a frenzy, all their rage focused on the man currently cowering backstage, searching frantically for a way out. If he left right now, it would still be a good day's work. But no, there was one more act to this little drama yet.

As the chanting reached a crescendo, he held up his purple-gloved hands for silence. The sight of him, a slight, lone figure before a teeming throng, was far more intimidating than anyone might have credited, even given his fearsome and well-deserved reputation. The audience quieted instantly.

"It's bad," he said, nodding sympathetically. "Yeah, it's bad. It's guys like him who give this town a bad rep!" There was a roar of approval from the crowd, which he silenced with another slight gesture. "But tell me, Gotham…who's the _real_ villain here?"

An echoing silence met his words this time.

"Is it me," he went on, "with my little, ah, pranks? Is it the wicked ol' sleazebag producers? Or is it _you_, the almighty customer, who sat there watching the carnage and screamed for more, more, more, more, _more_?" He beamed around at the stunned spectators, arms wide, making sure the cameras could see him, before sweeping into a mocking bow.

"Good mornin', Gotham, and have a _wonderful_ day!"

On cue, the bulbs in the spotlights shattered, plunging the studio into darkness.

It's said that the only place you can ever have _real_ darkness, without a hint of light anywhere, is inside a cave. That may be true. But the darkness of a theatre or studio certainly comes close. Such places are, after all, built to keep the world at bay. After the lights smashed, even the keenest of eyes would have found it impossible to see their hand when it was an inch from their nose.

The smart thing to do would have been for everyone to remain in their seats and wait for the technicians to find the emergency light switch. Crowds are not known for doing the smart thing, especially when they are already riled up.

Someone screamed, and someone else shouted, and within moments, the studio was a screaming, writhing mess of humanity. Viewers across the city could no longer see what was happening, but they could hear the shrieks of pain and rage as the captive audience threw itself blindly at the walls of the studio, the aftereffects of the flash still burned into their retinas, sounds of the chaos echoing in the enclosed space and a high-pitched, nasal laugh cutting effortlessly through the smothering darkness…

"Cut the camera!" one of the techies screamed, and across Gotham, TV screens went blank before their stunned audiences.

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On the other side of town, Bruce Wayne waited a few moments to be sure that the broadcast had ended, then flicked the TV off.

"Well," he muttered, stretching the knots of tension from his muscles, "at least he kept his promise. No one got killed."

Leave it to the Joker.

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"It's okay! I'm alright! I think my spine has exploded, but I'm fine!"

~Johnny the Homicidal Maniac

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_**A/N:**__ A note on Melissa's categories…no one has ever actually studied mangrove crab breeding habits. I get the feeling that Joker knew that. Writing him being sadistic is entirely too much fun._

_The answer to the first question is Lucien Dulfan. The answer to the second question is ema datshi, which is delicious, but must be eaten with extreme caution. The stuff makes mace, the primary ingredient in pepper spray, look like pickle relish._


	13. Alfred

_**A/N:**__ Joker is an awesome character, and one of my favorite people to write, but I'll be honest: if I ever actually met him face to face, I'd probably wet myself. I'd much rather get to know Gordon or Alfred. Too often, the more normal Batman characters get overlooked in favor of the masked marauders, and both the butler and commissioner are utterly amazing in their own right. Batman keeps the city going, but who keeps Batman going?_

_As I said before, I can't write accents. You'll have to fill in Michael Caine's delightful British brogue yourself._

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"It is one thing to show your child the way, and a harder thing to then stand out of it."

~ Robert Brault

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Bruce spent the remainder of the day following news reports on the Joker's ill-fated game show and worrying about his date with Beatrix, which, Alfred had reminded him, was at six o'clock tonight. Perhaps Jack had remembered this, or perhaps he was just wary of seeing Batman so soon after his latest stunt. Either way, he failed to show up for the rest of the day.

The daylight hours passed in a haze of pacing, planning, phone calls, mild panicking, and general frustration. Finally, five thirty arrived, and Alfred implied that it might be time to start getting ready. Bruce didn't argue. Alfred helped him, as much out of ritual as because he thought his employer needed it.

"Not that shirt," Alfred told him, removing it from his unresisting hands. "Try this one instead."

"Thanks," Bruce muttered as he pulled it on. "At least one of us knows what he's doing."

Alfred smiled very slightly and handed him a pair of shoes to match the shirt.

Alfred couldn't help but notice the changes that had taken place in his young charge over the past few weeks. Bruce smiled more now, and he laughed more easily. He seemed happier, though, as his butler had noticed, this was not currently the case. Right now he was distracted, more so than was usual before yet another date he didn't want to go on. Several times he put things down, only to ask Alfred where they were a moment later.

"Something wrong, sir?" he asked finally, the fifth time this happened.

"Worried," came the reply, slightly muffled from inside the closet. "You're sure I put the shoes in here?"

"Check the bottom shelf on the left," Alfred told him. "Worried about the Joker?"

A pause. "Yeah," Bruce admitted, stepping around the door, shoes in hand. "He's keeping his promise, but," he sighed, fumbling at the Lilliputian-sized buttons on his shirt, "it's a miracle no one was seriously hurt." He groaned as he realized that he'd done up the buttons one off, and he'd have to redo all of them.

Alfred paused for a moment, before voicing the question that had occupied his thoughts for weeks now.

"Someone such as that, Master Wayne, against everything that Batman stands for. Why…?"

"I had to," Bruce said simply, looking up from his shirt. "He figured out who Batman was, and it was the only way I could keep him close enough to keep an eye on him. I had no choice."

"I don't suppose you considered a…permanent solution?" Alfred asked carefully. The look he received from Bruce was answer enough.

"I can't," Bruce said. His voice had a flattened, dead quality to it. Alfred nodded and went back to selecting a tie for him to wear tonight.

Alfred had asked Bruce this before. It wasn't so much that he was telling Bruce he ought to be killing people, Bruce had decided, as that he was simply asking whether Batman's morals still held true. He believed in Batman's crusade, but Bruce knew that Alfred didn't always agree with his decisions, especially concerning the number of very much alive and very much annoyed enemies he left behind. Alfred was a long way from his days as a soldier, but he was still the man who had burned down a forest to catch a bandit. He did what had to be done. Bruce knew better than most just how long it took old habits to die.

He had never told Alfred the real reason he refused to kill. It was because he held human life sacred, yes, but there was more than that. It wasn't because he knew how hard it would be, to rob another living person of that last little bit of consciousness. No, it was because he knew how _easy_ it would be. He knew the power of having someone at your mercy, knowing it would only take one sharp punch, one slight twist in the right place, able to justify it to himself afterwards as having been deserved. He knew that, having killed once, he could do it again, and again, rationalizing it until he saw the slaughter as normal, necessary even. Just part of the job. Until he couldn't stop.

Sometimes, though it sickened him to even acknowledge it, he saw things from the Joker's point of view. People in general were mindless cattle, milling blindly while the sky fell around them. While Joker saw their ignorance and obliviousness as an invitation to carnage though, reasoning that people that stupid didn't deserve to live, Bruce saw it as all the more reason to protect them from the things they would never comprehend.

"I can't kill, even for that," Bruce said honestly.

"There were still other choices," suggested his butler. "Prison, for one…"

"He broke out of Arkham already," Bruce told him, "out of the highest security cell they had. I checked the precautions myself, even added a few, and he still broke out. Why wouldn't he have done it again, and told the world who was under the Batsuit as payback? No," he said, shaking his head, "I had to. It was the only way to keep an eye on him." He ignored the tightening in the back of his throat that he always got when he tried, unsuccessfully, to lie to his butler. He wasn't telling the whole truth, but really, he wasn't exactly lying either. As usual, Alfred noticed anyway.

"There's more to it than that." It wasn't a question.

"Alfred…" Bruce whispered. He seemed unsure how to continue. Finally, he took a deep breath and murmured, "It began as that, yeah, but…then it changed. Now something's different, and having him around helps, it really does." He glanced up, his face far too creased and careworn for a man of only thirty. "I need this," he said simply.

Alfred nodded silently, hating his words but accepting them nonetheless. This couldn't end well, and he knew that the longer it went on, the more it would hurt Bruce when it was finally over. He wished there was something, anything he could do to try and change the foregone conclusion.

Bruce knew that Alfred cared about him, but he would probably never know just how much.

Alfred was Bruce's closest friend. He had raised Bruce from age ten on, and even before that, he had been a second father in everything but genetics. Alfred had never married, but he loved Bruce like a son, and he had considered the Waynes family, a feeling they returned. He knew how unique they were in this. He'd spoken with the servants of other families from the Gotham elite, and for almost all of them, work and personal life were kept entirely separate, as much by their employer's preferences as their own. It was only a job. For any of them, if a member of the family they worked for died, it just meant some extra work making funeral arrangements. For him, the deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne had been deeply personal, the devastating loss of his closest friends rather than a simple shift in who paid his wages.

After their death, Alfred had gotten custody of Bruce. Lord knows there were plenty of relatives who could've taken him, a number who would've loved nothing more, and a few who had tried, but Thomas's will had stood strong. Amid a scandalized buzz from the rest of high society and a cloud of curiosity from everywhere else, it was decided that the Wayne's butler should raise their only son.

Ten-year-old Bruce saw none of this, still stunned by the sudden loss of his parents. Alfred did his best to shield his charge from the publicity and attention, with a reasonable degree of success. He was humbly honored that Thomas had entrusted him with the most precious thing in the world to him, to both of them, and he was determined to prove that faith justified and care for Bruce as well as he could.

Alfred succeeded in protecting the little boy from the world at large, but not even he could protect Bruce from himself. As Bruce grew, his shock developed into anger, then a dark, simmering sullenness that made the teenage Bruce rebellious and prone to lash out. Alfred was the only one he listened to at all, the only one who could occasionally call him back to his senses or compel him to obey, and as time dragged along, even that became rarer.

Then had come the breaking point: the night of Joe Chill's trial. Rachel later told him about the fight, after Bruce had vanished. Weeks went by, with no sign of him and nothing to say whether he was still alive or lying unclaimed in a morgue somewhere. Alfred hadn't been willing to admit that a headstrong twenty-two-year-old with no knowledge of the streets stood a good chance of getting killed, especially as rich a target as Bruce Wayne. He'd kept searching long after everyone else had given up, when even the tabloids had stopped wondering where he was.

Seven painful, difficult years. Sixty-one thousand, three hundred and twenty hours, agonizing in the horrible uncertainty. And then the call.

Even over the phone, Bruce had sounded different. Older. Calmer. When Alfred saw him again, he carried himself with quiet confidence of someone who had proved his worth, rather than the confidence of someone born into privilege. The brooding rage had changed to a driving passion, a passion for justice and integrity, a passion that gave birth to Batman.

Alfred had watched as he trained and studied and improvised, getting ready for his one-man crusade against crime. He'd had his doubts, but he helped wherever he could, getting the newly discovered Batcave ready for use and researching the Gotham crime lords as Bruce began his war.

There would be risks; he knew there would be. That was part of the reason he had insisted Bruce include a radio in his cowl, so that he could call for help if he needed it. Nothing, though, had prepared him for the man he considered a son to be sprayed in the face with some experimental hallucinogen. The sight of Bruce twitching and shaking, terrified of every shadow, terrified of _him_, was one he knew wouldn't fade. He'd never asked Bruce what the drug had made him see. He already knew the answer.

That had been a dark time. Hard on the heels of that disaster had come the fire, only weeks after Bruce had returned home. When Alfred got back from dropping Rachel off and saw the flames licking at the venerable old house, he had feared the worst. He knew that Bruce had made some powerful enemies on his travels, and if they wanted him dead, it was as good as done. He went in anyway. What else could he do?

The blaze had danced playfully around him as he ran from room to room, caressing and scorching his skin like that fire in the forests of Burma so many years ago. Every step farther into the inferno brought more choking, gagging smoke and the ever-growing fear that he would find Bruce's corpse, blackened and smoldering. His skin burning with embers and panic, the soles of his shoes beginning to melt in the heat, Alfred could think of nowhere closer to hell.

It was a true miracle that he had found Bruce in time. It was an even greater miracle that neither of them had been killed, either in the blaze or in the panic in the Narrows that followed. That was the night that Batman truly came into his own as the city's protector, and Alfred was prouder of him than he could possibly say, for taking a stand and giving hope to a city desperately in need of it. That was the first night he truly believed in Bruce's vision of Batman.

Pride gave way to fear though, as time wore on and Batman's adventures became deadlier and deadlier. For Bruce, out fighting in the streets, gallivanting from rooftop to rooftop, it was bad enough. For Alfred, stuck behind with nothing but the ambiguous news reports, Batman's minimal radio contact, and his own aching dread, it was a hundred times worse.

When Bruce dragged himself home, bruised and bleeding from his encounters with criminals and police alike, it was Alfred who stitched him up and found progressively stronger painkillers. It was Alfred who checked his equipment every night, looking for any flaws or malfunctions that might prove fatal in a fight. It was Alfred who managed his double life, arranging dates, coming up with excuses, and finding social events to fit around his time as Batman. And it was Alfred who worried every night, who never slept soundly, if at all, until Bruce was safely home again.

There was so much that worried him now. It worried him whenever he saw the bruises and cuts that littered his employer's body, a reminder that Bruce was by no means immortal, or invulnerable. It worried him how old he seemed all of the sudden, how he tired easily and his hands seemed to lose some of their deftness. It worried him now, especially, that the Joker knew Batman's secret and could destroy both of them with a single word whispered in the wrong ear. In spite of this, he remained Bruce's anchor, a constant in a life that shifted as ceaselessly as a sand dune. He did whatever needed to be done, and he would continue the task he had taken on twenty years earlier and protect Bruce in any way at all that he could.

He could say, with no ego whatsoever, that Bruce trusted him more than he trusted anyone else. He was Bruce's mentor, confidante, advisor, friend, caretaker, and guardian. He was also, however, Bruce Wayne's employee, and the barrier between master and servant still stood, no matter how thin it might be. He had to dance a fine line, being everything Bruce needed him to be without crossing that last final hurdle. There were times he could offer advice, and there were times he couldn't, and this was one of those times. No matter how much he wished he could, this was Bruce's choice, and his alone.

Yes, Bruce seemed happier. But Alfred had come across more than his fair share of madmen in his years as a pilot, actor, and adventurer, among other things, and he knew that most of them wanted to have a good time, no matter the cost to those around them. For the Joker, this was just another fun game. But for Bruce, this was his life, and when you toyed with fire, you always got burned.

Alfred alone had seen how deeply the betrayal of Ra's al Ghul, another mentor and father figure, had affected Bruce. He couldn't see how this affair with the Joker could end any differently, much as he wished it might. He just didn't want to see Bruce hurt any more.

_Yes, he's happy now,_ he thought, helping Bruce get ready for his date, _but what happens when the Joker gets bored and leaves, or changes his mind about revealing Batman's identity? What happens when the game ends?_

"Do I look all right?" Bruce asked uncomfortably, breaking him out of his thoughts. Smiling slightly, Alfred straightened the bowtie before pronouncing himself satisfied. Seven years of wearing whatever rags he could scrape together had ruined what minimal fashion sense his employer had originally had.

Bruce smiled and nodded his thanks before scooping his jacket off a chair and hurrying out the door. Alfred watched him go. He loved Bruce dearly, and if anything ever happened to him…he really didn't know what he'd do.

The normally stoic butler fought down the rising emotions as he made his way back to the kitchen. Bruce would be all right. It was just dinner with one more pretty girl. Nothing would happen.

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Bruce clambered into his car and jammed the key into the ignition, still pondering his conversation with Alfred. He felt better now that he'd talked his bizarre situation over with someone, and though Bruce knew he didn't like it, he hoped that Alfred at least understood his choice. His butler's opinion mattered more to him than anyone else's.

What he had told Alfred was the truth; somewhere along the line, something had changed, and being with Jack was a pleasure now instead of just a safety precaution. Somehow, they had become friends.

_When was it?_ he wondered, and the answer came to him almost immediately, as though just waiting for him to ask. It was that night with the storm.

_Oh god, I'm in it deep,_ he thought. _The second night and I'd already forgotten why I agreed in the first place._ Well, no, not forgotten. It just hadn't been as important anymore as having someone he could call a friend. He had lost his control over the situation, and it hadn't mattered.

"Yeah, I'm in it deep," he muttered, pulling up to the richly appointed front doors of the Ocelot. The usual fireworks flash of paparazzi bulbs greeted him as he vaulted casually out of the car, devil-may-care grin already pasted into place.

The Ocelot. This was the restaurant where he had run into Harvey and Rachel, not quite by accident. It was also _the_ place to go if you wanted the world to see you, which was exactly what Bruce Wayne was looking for. Ordinarily, it was impossible to get a reservation unless you called at least three weeks in advance, but Bruce had some influence with the owner.

Bruce tossed the valet the keys to his newly repaired Lamborghini and strode into the foyer with cocksure swagger the world had come to expect. Beatrix was waiting for him, her platinum-colored hair perfectly coiffed. It didn't really surprise him that she was already there; he was ten minutes late, as was usual for Bruce Wayne.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," he said politely, flashing his best million-watt smile.

"Of course not," Beatrix purred, her cherry-colored lips curving into a smile to mirror his. "I arrived only a minute ago." He couldn't tell whether she was lying or not.

She looked stunning. Bruce had never been one to follow fashion trends, but he would've bet his Batsuit that whoever had designed that dress was one of the biggest names in the business. It was a light, sparkling sea green confection trimmed in a shade of silver grey that matched her eyes. It clung in all the right places and billowed out exactly where it should, a Raphael masterpiece of needlework.

_If half the effort and expense that went into dress,_ Bruce decided, _was put towards fighting crime, there'd be at least three more mobsters in jail right now._

"Miss Guidicelli, you look lovely," he smiled, taking her arm. "Shall we?"

"With pleasure," she murmured, voice sultry. Bruce tugged at the collar of his shirt, suddenly overwarm.

All went as well as could be expected until their waiter, a kid in his twenties, probably trying to pay his way through college, showed them to their table.

Bruce didn't see anything wrong with it. It was across the room from where he'd sat with Harvey, Rachel, and Natascha, in a relatively open area. It seemed perfectly all right to him. Beatrix, though, was not at all happy with it. What was more, she wasted no time in informing the waiter that he had better start doing something about it.

"I'm sorry, ma'm, he said politely, hands together, "but we're booked solid this evening. There's nothing I can do."

That was not the answer Beatrix had been looking for.

"This is unacceptable," she snarled, her airy, fluting voice transformed into an angry cat's yowl. "I do not wish to sit in the middle of the floor, like some zoo animal on display! Either you find us a new table, or I shall personally see to it that this is your final night of employment!"

It was no idle threat. Though the expansion of Wayne Enterprises was helping, work was still scarce in Gotham, and job security was almost unknown. No one could afford to be out of work, and no one could afford to hire, so you took whatever employment you could find. The waiter went pale and scurried away, promising to do whatever he could.

"Oaf," Beatrix sniffed, taking Bruce's arm again.

Bruce felt a cold, wormish tendril of distaste writhe its way like bile through the pit of his stomach. He didn't say anything, but his lips tightened almost imperceptibly.

Even when playing the part of an idiot party boy, Bruce made it a point to be as polite as possible to the various waiters, cooks, valets, and various other working-class people he encountered. He had considerably more respect for the people who worked for a living than he did for trust fund brats, who seemed to believe that society as a whole was created for their comfort and convenience, and that as long as they were content, the rest of the world could go hang itself. That was exactly the attitude he had hoped Batman would go some ways towards curing. Even now, it aggravated him to see such blatant apathy.

The poor waiter hurriedly found them a table at the edge of the room, one Beatrix sniffed at but deemed acceptable. He scuttled off, looking relieved. Bruce made a mental note to leave him a huge tip as an apology.

This was going to be a long night.

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"Now keep this in mind, because it never fails - a person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person."

~ Dave Barry

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_**A/N:**__ Yes, I know this chapter is noticeably lacking in a certain Sir Laugh-a-Lot. The connection between Alfred and Bruce is one of the most interesting and important in the story, and I wanted to give them a scene alone to work things out a bit, and establish their relationship a little more._

_**To Yvette_xo:**__ You, my dear, have put your finger on something I've been trying to improve for a while. Gestures and subtle body language have always been difficult for me to write, though I'm making a conscious effort to try and include them in this. I'm still experimenting, trying to figure out how to convey their complex, bizarre relationship without making them horribly OOC, so thanks so much for pointing out where it still needs a little work!_

_Feedback is greatly appreciated. Constructive criticism is adored._


	14. A Long Night

_**A/N:**__ Oy vey, what a week. I wrote at the speed of light (for me), got in just enough classtime to get (literally) plastered, and then vanished off to sculpt snow! My team's sculpture took second place and Committee's Choice in the amateur division, which was drop-dead amazing. In the state division, a sculpture titled Dark Knight won third, featuring you-know-who sitting on a gargoyle, cape swirling dramatically. Of course, immediately after judging, the sun came out and all the sculptures started falling apart…Oh well. It was fun while it lasted._

_Forgot to mention earlier…Vicki Vale is stolen from several earlier versions of Batman, including Tim Burton's. She's not an OC, though I'm taking plenty of liberties with her character in this canon._

_Enjoy this chapter!_

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"The female mind is certainly a devious one, my lord."

Vetinari looked at his secretary in surprise. "Well, of course it is. It has to deal with the male one."

~ Terry Pratchett

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Contrary to popular belief, Bruce Wayne didn't actually have a sense of romance. There hadn't really been much call for one in the Himalayan Mountains, when you were learning three hundred and ninety-two ways of incapacitating someone with a wooden bowl. As Batman, romance was laughably nonexistent.

As Bruce Wayne though, he was expected to be a lady's man, and to be well versed in every aspect of seduction. His idea of a good date was one where he never had to fight for his life, but the women he was with usually expected a bit more. As such, he had discovered long ago that a combination of candles, soft music, flowers of some sort, and champagne could usually get him through the evening without losing his reputation as Gotham's resident Casanova. A recipe for instant romance. If that didn't cut it, prattle about how her eyes look like the moon or ocean or something. If all else failed, talk about money.

Beatrix, though, seemed oddly resilient to his admittedly halfhearted attempts to sweep her off her feet. She blushed and preened at his compliments, and every joke was met with a throaty chuckle of appreciation, but she was most certainly not starry-eyed and scatter-brained just yet.

For the first time since he'd returned to Gotham, his tried-and-true formula wasn't working. Even his final fallback – start her talking about herself – failed to get the response he wanted. Every time he tried to ask Beatrix to tell him more about her, she'd brush the questions off and ask him instead. What was more disturbing, she actually seemed to be listening to his unenthusiastic answers, as though there was nothing in the world she found more fascinating than hearing about the various business deals Wayne Enterprises had made in the last year. It was really quite extraordinarily disconcerting. He'd never had a date actually _listen_ to him before. He'd have to be careful what he said.

They managed to sit down and order drinks without further incident, though the waiter kept shooting Beatrix cautious looks, as though afraid she would suddenly fly across the table at him. Bruce tried to give him a reassuring smile, though he wasn't sure how effective it was with Beatrix still glaring over his shoulder.

There was a brief lull as the waiter brought out the overly expensive wine that Bruce had no intention of finishing, and took their orders. Before he managed to vanish back to the safety of the kitchens though, Beatrix informed him, in a tone of pure ice, that he had best get this exactly right. He gulped and nodded frantically. Bruce felt bad for him, but there was nothing he could do about it that he thought Beatrix might not take as a personal insult. Instead, he contented himself with taking the opportunity to glance around the restaurant.

He couldn't help but notice that there didn't seem to be any reporters around. Usually they swarmed him every time he went out, and while he certainly never enjoyed their presence, their absence seemed somehow significant. Moreover, he was doing this to get into the papers; it was kind of pointless sitting here and suffering through Beatrix's company if he didn't get noticed for it.

Part of the problem was the table. While they were by no means seated in the most secluded part of the room, they were far enough away so as not to attract attention. He could see the usual flock of favored paparazzi, the ones that had been allowed past the maitre de, following their intended targets around like a flock of birds, peppering them with questions. He was just considering how to attract their attention without being obvious about it when one particular reporter caught his eye: a brunette girl in an attractive, dark-blue skirt and jacket, notepad in hand. She looked oddly familiar, though Bruce couldn't think where he'd seen her. Then she turned around, and he recognized her face immediately.

"Ah, Vicki!" he called enthusiastically, ignoring Beatrix's hushed mewl of protest. "Pull up a chair, come join us!"

She looked around to see who had hailed her, and her oval face lit up at the sight of him. The expression dropped out of sight almost immediately though, to be replaced by sheepish regret.

"Can't, I'm afraid," she called back, apology heavy in her voice. "I'm working."

"A girl like yourself, working on a Saturday night?" Bruce asked, voice dripping with affected incredulousness.

"All work and no play make Vicki a dull girl," she smiled, "but the bills must be paid. I'm afraid that, socially, I'm about as lifeless as your average morgue."

"Surely you can afford to take a break," he told her, almost pleading. He'd gotten along so well with her at the party. Her company would be a welcome addition to Beatrix's, who, he made a point of not noticing, was giving him frantic but subtle gestures, trying to tell him to get rid of her.

"I suppose I could," Vicki decided, stepping lightly over to their table. "I _am_ here looking for you, after all."

"Looking for me specifically?" he asked flirtatiously, pulling out a chair for her. "I'm honored."

"Sorry to bust your bubble," she smiled, "but I'm just here celebrity spotting in general. The interns always get the crap stories to chase."

"Oh, and here I thought you were happy to see me," he shot back. "I'm wounded, I really am."

It was oddly pleasant, bantering with her. He found himself enjoying her company and her easy, informal wit, despite Beatrix's eyes searing into his back.

"Well," Vicki told him, her lips curving into a smile, "if it makes you feel any better, I certainly prefer your company to the seventy-year-old Russian ambassador's!"

Bruce smirked.

"Did you contact Fox yet?" he inquired, waving a waiter over to take her order.

"Yes, he was great," she smiled, seating herself on Bruce's other side, her every move followed by Beatrix's storm-cloud colored eyes. "He told me the prototype camera is due to be finished in a month or so, and he wants me to do a field test, a kind of consultancy thing, to see if I can find any flaws or adjustments that need to be made." She looked delighted.

Bruce was about to voice his very real congratulations, but Beatrix beat him to the punch, determined not to be ignored any longer.

"So you are a photographer?" she asked, her voice as sickly sweet as icing on a poisoned sweetcake. "You take pictures for fashion magazines?" The way her eyes glittered told Bruce that she already knew what the answer would be.

"I'm a photojournalist," Vicki told her, words suddenly edged with frost. The temperature around the table dropped several degrees. "I take pictures for newspapers and _real_ magazines. I don't suppose you've ever read any of them?"

"That depends," Beatrix said composedly, her accented voice sharp with distaste, "on what precisely you mean by real magazines."

Bruce was used to fights with fists and words, but this was a different sort of brawl. Fights where the tone was more important than the words and a single glance could convey more than several speeches and a sonnet were not unknown to him, but he had almost no experience with them. He had certainly never before found himself caught in the middle of one.

Looking at the two girls, he realized that they were almost evenly matched. Vicki had the stubborn, almost defiant look of someone who had realized that they were almost always more intelligent than those around them, but had yet to realize that the most intelligent thing they could do was to not advertise this fact. Beatrix, for all her flounces and hissy fits, had the air of a queen cat who had thoroughly earned her claws, and was ready to use them on anyone muscling in on her turf. Neither had any intention of giving an inch. They would have a worthy enemy in each other.

And, still watching them, he could tell that they had realized this. Already, there was a certain chemistry in the looks they gave each other. The kind of chemistry that had given the world Greek Fire. The kind of chemistry that went 'boom' and left everyone in the area with third-degree burns. In the few seconds they had known each other, they had formed a deep and abiding enmity.

Bruce usually avoided drinking when at all possible. He could rarely afford the dubious luxury of being drunk, and could afford even less to let anything slip. However, the sort of people that dined at the Ocelot were expected to enjoy fine wines, and right now, distancing himself from the other two members of his table was looking like a better and better idea. Just as long as he kept his wits while he went about it.

They were arguing about something else now, tones carefully, hideously polite. Bruce took a moment to reflect that perhaps getting the two of them within ten yards of each might not have been his best idea to date.

After checking that they didn't seem to notice his sudden absence from the conversation, he took a sip of wine and allowed himself to sink into a bubble-brained daze. The heady alcohol softened the razor sharp, paranoid edges of Batman and allowed socialite Bruce Wayne to take over, casting a mild blur over everything. He settled back in his seat, the slow, sweet burn of alcohol slipping gently through his blood.

He was here to make the news. He already owned the restaurant, what else could he do that would attract a lot of attention? Something extravagant, and ridiculous…

He beckoned to the waiter again, who hurried over, glancing warily at Beatrix. She took a moment from the verbal battle to stare down her nose, but didn't say anything.

"I'd like to buy dinner tonight," Bruce told the waiter, one arm draped over the back of his plush chair. "For everyone."

"Certainly, sir," the waiter said courteously, adding a note to his pad. "You've already ordered, I can easily make the bill out in your name…"

Bruce shook his head, wearing a casually, arrogantly amused smile.

"No, you don't understand. Not just for the three of us. For the whole restaurant. Everyone."

That statement took a moment to sink in. Bruce could see the effect it had as it passed through his brain, on its way to being processed and comprehended. The way the kid's eyes suddenly started showing rims of white, the slight sag of the jaw, the way hand holding the notepad began shaking…

"But Mr. Wayne," the poor waiter gasped as the full effect of his announcement made itself known, "the restaurant's full tonight, the cost…"

"I know what I'm doing," said Bruce in his best confident billionaire voice. "Please announce to the restaurant that dinner's on me, and you can add it to my check." He smiled benignly at the waiter's shocked expression, but to the kid's credit, he did a good job of covering it. Within moments, he snapped back into professional mode, nodding stiffly and hurrying off to see to it that the owner's instructions were carried out to the letter.

Bruce watched him go, then turned back to his guests, only to get a rather unpleasant surprise. While his back was turned, the conversation had somehow switched to his alter ego. Batman. Why did these conversations _always_ make their way around to Batman?

Beatrix and Vicki appeared to be in the middle of another argument, or perhaps their previous one had simply jumped the tracks. Either way, Bruce decided not to get involved just yet. He fiddled with his fork and settled back in his chair, eyes flicking from one to the other.

"He's a verminous felon even worse than the criminals he claims to fight," Beatrix hissed, and Bruce was surprised by the hatred he saw blazing in her eyes. "He thinks he is above the law, and he can do whatever he wishes without fear of reprisal, better than us mere mortals. I'm _delighted_ that Gotham has finally seen him for the homicidal freak he is, and if he gets killed, it is what he deserves for beginning this lunacy in the first place!"

That was the final nail in the coffin. Bruce had disliked Beatrix before, but it would be, he felt, better for everyone's future happiness if their first date were also their last. While he had no problem with people who disliked Batman, it usually didn't work when one half of a couple would love to see the other dead.

"_I_ think he's a hero," Vicki told her coldly. "Maybe he killed those mobsters and cops, maybe he didn't and it's a government cover-up." Bruce hurriedly took a sip of wine. "Even if he did," she went on, voice blazing with all the passion of a young reporter absolutely convinced that she is in the right, "I wouldn't hold it against him. The crooks have run this town for long enough, and the cops are just as bad, so if killing a few of them is what it takes to solve the problem, so be it!"

When she finished, her face was oddly flushed. She and Beatrix glared at each other over the table. If expressions had physical force, Bruce thought, eyeing the glowering girls, the power of their glares would probably be equivalent to being run over with the Tumbler several times.

Bruce decided it was time to step in.

"Well," he shrugged with exaggerated carelessness, "I won't pretend to know whether he's a hero or a criminal, but he's almost certainly messed up. Anyone who dresses up as a bat and goes around jumping off buildings clearly has some issues."

"Interesting that you should mention that," Vicki told him, her eyes suddenly gleaming. "We've actually had a psychologist, a Dr. Quinzel, put together a psychological profile of the Batman." Bruce felt a needle of ice trace its way down his spine, burning through the slight haze left by the strong wine. "Her analysis was much the same as yours."

_Find a way to deal with this. Now._

"Let me guess," Bruce chuckled, "white male, early to mid thirties, possibly a traumatic childhood, has trouble keeping a stable job, residence, or relationship, and antisocial to boot." _Sound like anyone I know?_

He threw back his head and forced a laugh, only to find Miss Vale staring at him, awestruck.

"You missed a few points, but that's almost exactly right," she told him, looking thoroughly impressed.

_Oh shit._

"Really," Bruce asked, with affected disinterest. Inside, he was cringing. _Stupid, stupid, stupid! Might as well give her all the records and a guided tour of the Batcave while you're at it._

"I mean, it's pretty textbook," she went on, "but still, how did you know?"

Bruce opened his mouth with no idea how he could possibly answer that. Vicki was still goggling at him, dying to hear what the billionaire bachelor knew about what might be the biggest story of her admittedly short career. She liked Bruce, she really did, but she had only known him for three days, and she smelled a story in the making. If it was big enough, it might go some way towards paying last month's rent. Journalism internships didn't have quite the same salary afforded the owner of the city's most successful company, and she needed all the money she could get.

Said company owner's phone buzzed lightly in his pocket, diverting him from the awkward question. _Perfect timing._ He pulled it out with a quick 'excuse me' and flipped it open to find a text from Alfred.

While he was distracted, Beatrix took the opportunity to level another cold glare at Vicki, a look she returned with added interest. Both were adept at nursing grudges and landing subtle blows, and the hostility born here tonight was not one that would fade any time in the conceivable future. Vicki's eyes narrowed, already planning her article for tomorrow's paper.

They were distracted by Bruce's sudden, sharp intake of breath.

"I'm sorry, ladies," he muttered, jumping up as though he had noticed a scorpion or something similar sharing the chair with him. "Something's come up, I have to leave."

He hurriedly threw a few hundred-dollar bills on the table as a tip, told the waiter to send him the bill, and seized his jacket from the chair next to him. Vicki was about to ask him what was going on when her phone rang as well.

"Hello?" she asked cautiously, putting the cell phone to her ear. A moment later, Bruce heard her gasp.

"I've got to go too," she muttered, flipping the phone shut and frantically stuffing her things back into her handbag. "There's some sort of… gang war, I guess, at the docks, involving what's left of the Falcones and the Russians, and my boss wants me to cover it."

"There's _**what**_?" Beatrix asked, looking aghast. Snatching up her coat, Vicki repeated the message on her way out, only to get bowled over as Beatrix suddenly dashed past her.

Later, Bruce would reflect that he had never seen anyone move that fast while wearing stiletto heels. At the moment though, his mind was bent on the task at hand, which was getting out the door and into his car as fast as humanly possible. Faster, if he could manage it. Beatrix and Vicki seemed to have the same idea. All three got out of the restaurant as fast as they could without actually running, racing each other to the exit and to their respective cars and not even pretending to have time for the courtesy of goodbyes.

Bruce pushed the speed limits as far as he could, praying he wouldn't run into any cops and calculating how long it would take him to get his equipment together and get down to the docks. Things had been running too smoothly lately; he should've known something like this would happen. He just hoped he could keep it under control.

He felt a slight ache begin to pound in his left temple, and cursed himself for ordering alcohol. He'd only had a few sips, but even trace amounts would slow his reaction time, and he'd need every advantage he could get. He gritted his teeth and pressed the gas harder, eyes narrowed against the late autumn wind. He would just have to be able to deal with it.

A thought occurred to him, one that made him smile grimly in spite of the impending trouble of the situation.

_Fastest I've ever gotten out of a date. And this time, it wasn't even completely my fault._

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While Bruce was out, Alfred decided to take the opportunity to clean the bedroom. By now he was used to finding unusual things there, such as stray pieces of various Batsuits, futuristic weapons, and martial arts equipment. It was simply part of sharing a house with Gotham's resident vigilante. Finding the Joker though, sprawled across the carpet and reading, may have to top the list of strangest things so far.

There was a tense moment of silence as both parties froze. They had more or less accepted the other's presence in Bruce's life, but they still avoided each other whenever they could. Face to face encounters were rare, and neither was quite sure how to proceed.

Remembering what Bruce had said, Alfred hid his shock and did his level best to be as polite as possible.

"I'm sorry to barge in," he said, regaining his customary composure. "I hadn't expected to find you here."

"I'm waitin' for Bats," Joker said warily, grip tightening on the bundle of papers he held. Both lapsed back into silence, sizing the other up, wondering what the correct responses would be to the questions that were sure to come.

Once again, it was Alfred who cracked through the layer of silence.

"If you'll forgive me saying so, I'm rather surprised to find you waiting so patiently," he said carefully, waiting to see how the Joker would react. Alfred wouldn't have thought he'd be the sort of person to spend hours just sitting around. Not when there were so many buildings in Gotham left unbombed.

"Well, I crashed his last coupla parties, I figured he could use a night off," Joker shrugged, making as if to go back to reading. "I figured I'd jus' wait for him to finish his date."

"You might be waiting for a while," Alfred told him, voice cautious. "Master Wayne's already come and gone. He's out as Batman now."

_That_ got the Joker's full attention.

"The Bat's _out_?" he asked incredulously. "Without me?"

Alfred nodded, still keeping an eye on him.

"Yes. There was some mob trouble, so he cancelled his date to sort it out. He got back almost an hour ago, and left soon after."

As the words sank in, the Joker's scarred face suddenly twisted into a snarl. The effect was somewhat warped by the scars that pulled his mouth into a constant grin, which only made it all the more unsettling.

The Bat was out having fun _without_ him? That was utterly and completely intolerable. Unacceptable in every sense of the word. And worse, the mob fools were actually openly disobeying him? He knew times had been tough for what remained of Gotham's organized crime, but were they all that suicidal?

There was only one thing to be done. Obviously this little equation needed its final variable. But how far into the game were they? If they'd started anything fun without him…

Without another glance at the room's other occupant, he hurriedly scrambled out the balcony door, still pulling on his coat. He had vanished within moments. Alfred watched him leave. Once he was sure the Joker was gone, he pulled out his cell phone and began typing. Bruce should probably be made aware that the Joker was out and about.

He finished the text and turned to go, but the sheaf of papers the Joker had left stacked messily on the floor caught his eye. Curiosity got the better of him.

_I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London,_ the top sheet read,_ that a young healthy child well nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled…_

After only a moment's thought, Alfred recognized the text. Jonathan Swift's _A Modest Proposal_. A darkly satirical essay arguing, in great detail, the benefits of selling year-old children as food. It could be seen as a commentary on desperate social conditions of the time, if you wished to read it that way. Or it could be musings on the savagery of the human race towards its own. He was quite sure he knew which one the Joker would want to view it as.

He shuffled the papers neatly into a pile and put them on the dresser. _A Modest Proposal._ It didn't surprise him in the slightest.

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Opposition is not necessarily enmity; it is merely misused and made an occasion for enmity.

~ Sigmund Freud

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_**A/N: **__If you have never before encountered Jonathan Swift's __**A Modest Proposal**__, I would definitely recommend looking it up. If read with the wrong mindset, it is horrifying and disgusting. Read in the right frame of mind, it is darkly witty and quite appallingly sensible. Think of the Joker setting a fire truck on fire, or writing, 'SLaughter is the best Medicine.' Irony at its blood-spattered finest._

_Let me know what you think of the new summary?_


	15. Nightlife

_**A note concerning the timeline of this fic:**__ the bonus features on the Dark Knight DVD have DK taking place about nine months after BB. However, the DK movie novel sets the two as being about a month apart. Since I had access to the movie novel long before the DVD, I planned this story accordingly, and a few of my later plot points won't work under the movie canon timeline. So, I'm claiming artistic license and setting Dark Knight only a month or so after Batman Begins. Normally I try to stay as true as possible to the source material, but in this case, it can't be avoided without considerable hassle and some damage to the storyline._

_'Nuff chatter. Enjoy!_

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"Richard began to understand darkness: darkness as something solid and real, so much more than a simple absence of light. He felt it touch his skin, questing, moving, exploring: gliding through his mind. It slipped into his lungs, behind his eyes, into his mouth..."

~ Neil Gaiman

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During the day, Gotham was just like any other city. A little more corrupt, perhaps, more crime, more craziness, but certainly livable, if you were careful. Nighttimes, though, were a different story. Once the sun had slunk shamefacedly over the horizon and the dim orange glow of the streetlights turned on – or failed to turn on, depending on the residents of any given area – the city belonged to the human ghosts and the bogeymen. They haunted the cracked, oily tar streets, slipping from shadow to shadow on their own business. Whether they were drug dealers, vigilantes, mobsters, waifs, prostitutes, or some other form of nightlife, they kept to themselves, and if anyone started poking their nose out a little too far, a quick flash of a blade or whisper of a silken noose was enough to ensure that everyone's eyes stuck to their own business.

Even the predators are prey for something else though, and the ordinary criminals stood no chance against the dual threat of both Batman and whatever supervillain was currently trying to take over the town. They were rats, hunting bugs and insects, only to be hunted in turn by the cats and foxes of the city. There was no fighting back; there was only try not to draw attention to yourself and hope to god they don't notice you. Everyone out past nightfall knew that there was good reason to be afraid of the dark.

While they were safe in their artificial daylight, it was so easy to forget that the night outside was a place of blade and fang, where the hunters flit by on silent feet, stalking their quarry, and the shadows have eyes. The night is an hour of power and blood, where the strong survive and the weak are not welcome. The sheer, primal panic of impenetrable blackness pressing on your eyes like soft folds of weightless silk, of being seen but not seeing, was enough to chase away the sham bravado afforded by the glare of electricity. Here, in the dark, they were all equal, and they were all prey.

These were lessons learnt early and well by every criminal in Gotham, far more thoroughly than anything taught in a school. One who had yet to learn though was Alberto Falcone, son of Carmine Falcone, and new head of the Falcone crime family.

Carmine had been top dog in Gotham for almost eight years before striking deals with the wrong people and pushing his sometime ally just a little too far. The downfall of his career had begun with his reluctantly discovered function as a makeshift Batsignal, and ended with his gibbering and gnawing at his wrists in a padded cell. He'd made mistakes, but he'd kept power for a good long time, which took guts and know-how in a city like Gotham.

His second in command, Maroni, hadn't lasted nearly as long as he had, but he'd had his strong points. He forged an alliance with the other gangs, for one thing, and tried to deal with the Batman, even if the attempt was as doomed to failure as any rat's attempt to stand up to the cat.

Alberto did not have his predecessor's charisma or tactician's brain, or his father's experience and nerve. In fact, he had very little of anything, except perhaps for the sheer dumb courage to take a job most considered cursed, and an inflated sense of self-worth. As some of his men sniggered behind his back, if he bought himself for what he was worth and sold himself for what he thought he was worth, he could retire from crime the very next day.

Alberto really had no idea what was involved in running one of the largest crime families in the country. For instance, he had been away at college during what were now being called the Joker Killings. He therefore thought that there would be no problem in ignoring the violently violet-coated kook and trying to take a piece of the turf the ragtags called the Russians, the dregs of Gambol and the Chechen's gangs, had staked out. He also wasn't really expecting that a man dressed as a rodent and defying every conventional law of gravity would come swooping out of the darkness to try and save the day. Or night, if you preferred to be technical.

Still, no problem. He'd heard the city had its share of resident nutcases. Hell, his father was one now. He could handle a little craziness. He was tough.

Unfortunately, there was yet to exist a person tough enough to handle the Joker. Who was currently sitting on top of a building a little ways from the docks and determined to give the child some education.

Falcone remained blissfully unaware of this. Though perhaps blissful wasn't the word to describe him right now. The Russians had reacted badly to his attempts to claim a piece of their territory, and almost as soon as he'd arrived at the dockside lot, things had gotten…messy. Very quickly. And had remained messy, until the cops showed up.

At which point it got even messier.

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The three groups had fought themselves into a standoff, everyone sheltering behind whatever cover they could find in the wharf debris. Tension hung in the air like city smog, visible in the hands tightening around the butts of pistols and the stony set of features. Everyone was waiting for someone else to make the first move.

Joker kept his binoculars trained on the lot below him. It wasn't the best place for a confrontation; certainly not the place he'd have chosen. Cracked concrete surrounded on three sides by old, crumbling brick office buildings, framed on the fourth by the inky waters of the bay, oily moonlight bouncing off its surface. Scrubby little oil-soaked shrubs clinging to the edges of the lot. Figures crouched behind empty storage bins and shattered rubble, all in blue or black. All except for that one on the left, in bright, speckled paisley print.

His eyes narrowed. He snapped an order to one of the henchclowns standing behind him, voice every bit as cold as the wind whipping past them, and the clown hastily juggled a gun off the tarp behind him and into his boss's hands.

Joker began checking the gun without looking down, his eyes still fixed on the tiny toy people below him. He hadn't spotted Batsy yet, but he could wait. Right now, the important thing was teaching this little rodent _exactly_ who ran the city.

Why did this kid think he'd be able to handle it? The little prettyboy should stick to fluffing his chestnut-colored hair in front of the mirror and pouting those full lips at the girls, instead of playing gangster with the big kids. He barely had more years than fingers and toes, and not enough brains to fill a shotgun shell. Although Joker was more than willing to put that particular theory to the test.

It was with that goal in mind that he racked a few tranquilizer darts into the chamber of the modified rifle. Batsy would probably get bothered if he actually killed the kid, but he didn't need to; he could make it very, very clear what happened to people who disobeyed his orders without a single fatality. As long as there was still a breathing body left at the end of the night, Bats couldn't fault him.

He hopped onto the narrow ledge around the edge of the roof and fixed his sights on one of the figures crouched beneath him. The cold breeze curled past his ear as he pulled the stock of the gun solidly against his shoulder, the hefty weight of it oddly cheering. This was a machine made to reap damage and destruction, a precision tool of death. Sort of like him.

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Batman was perched on a building almost directly opposite the Joker, unaware of his rival's presence and keeping an eye on the standoff below. He'd gotten Alfred's message that the clown was on the loose, and he knew that sooner or later his sometime lover would show up, but for the moment, his chief concern was for the cops.

There was nothing he could do directly. He'd talked to Gordon earlier, when the commissioner slipped away from his team long enough for them to have a brief exchange. Gordon had warned him that cops had orders to shoot him on sight, and he had no doubt that the mobsters wouldn't mind taking him as a trophy either. His appearance would only serve to ignite an already tense situation. Entering the fight wasn't an option.

It was painful though, to sit and watch without taking part. He'd seen two of Gordon's squad take hits, though their bulletproof vests would hopefully shield them from the worst of it. At least twice that many mobsters had gone down, though whether injured or dead, he couldn't say.

Batman couldn't risk shooting, not with Gordon's squadron so close. There was really nothing he could do besides keep tabs on the area and be ready to provide backup if the need arose.

Anxious for anything to do, he swept the lot below him, then did a cursory check of the surrounding rooftops. He hadn't seen anything there before, he didn't see why that would have changed…but it had. There, a purple clad figure, violet coat flapping in the wind and his legs spread for balance…

Alarm bells went off in his head, a resounding, clanging din of warning. This was bad. If his mere presence would cause panic, and he knew it would, what would the Joker's involvement reap?

Dynamite. Fuse. Match.

He ran for the edge of the building, knowing even as he did that he was too late.

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Joker smiled cheerfully as the rifle went off, recoiling solidly into his shoulder. _Bound to leave a bruise_, some part of his mind processed, but most of it was concerned with following the dart's arc of flight and its final destination in the side of Alberto's neck.

"Gotcha," he said with no little satisfaction as the tiny dart emptied its poisoned load into the mobster's veins.

As Falcone collapsed, several things happened in quick succession.

A few henchclowns, hidden behind the crates that littered the desolate tarmac, lobbed smoke bombs into the battleground. They exploded as soon as they touched tar, filling the lot with billowing clouds of slate-grey smoke that choked off what little light came from the dim streetlamps. The henchclowns used the cover to their advantage, ducking into the smog to retrieve the fallen Falcone.

Batman flung himself off the roof, trying vainly to reach Falcone before the Joker's men.

Gordon's officers and the mobsters, thinking they were under attack again, panicked and began firing blindly into the haze of smog. Batman could hear their wild shots ricocheting off old brick as he tore into the artificial smokescreen in search of the clowns. Instantly, his vision went grey, though he could see the summer lightning flashes of the shots, punctuated by the harsh bark of the handguns. It was what he imagined being in the center of a hurricane must be like.

A bullet flashed past his head, the slim silver blur far too close. His already high heart rate jacked up another few notches. He was caught in the open ground between the three groups. If he stayed here, he'd be hit, but he had to risk it. He needed Falcone alive and in police custody.

Ducking and weaving, he reached the place where he thought he had seen Falcone, but the clowns had already spirited the passed-out mob lord away into the smoke. He twisted madly, trying to catch a glimpse of white latex clown masks, Alberto's paisley jacket, anything. His gadgets were useless in this smoke. His own bare senses would be his most valuable tools here.

His stinging eyes straining and heart pounding like a jackhammer, he peered into the smoke, ears pricked for any hint of Falcone and the clowns. One little sign, that was all he needed…

A brief scuffling reached him; not sounds of fighting, but sounds of someone trying very hard not to make noise while carrying a heavy burden. He zeroed in on the slight crunch and dashed after it, gunshots from both sides still flashing past him.

One of Gordon's rookies, the one Bruce recognized later as Denbrough, spotted Batman's horned cowl looming out of the strobe-lighted smoke like some primeval demon from his own personal hell. The dizzying thundercrack of gunfire and screams echoing around him, he reacted on panicked instinct and training, squeezing his trigger over and over until his clip was emptied. He dropped his eyes for no more than a second to fumble another in, hands clumsy from cold and fear, but when he looked up an instant later, the menacing figure was gone.

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Most of Denbrough's shots had gone wide, propelled by his alarm and haste, but one had found its mark in Batman's shoulder. When Denbrough paused to reload, he took his opportunity to stumble away, still following the scratch of cautious footsteps that was only just discernible under the melee of combat.

Batman finally stumbled past the edge of the smoke, and his vision cleared immediately, though his eyes still stung and smarted under the cowl. Damn clown must have mixed tear gas in with the thick, choking stuff. Blinking back the streaming tears, he set off down the alley at a dogged trot, following the trail of the Joker's henchman with their dangerous burden.

After only a few minutes though, the throbbing in his shoulder worsened, forcing him to slow. He would have to check it.

Gritting his teeth, he carefully pulled the fractured armor plates and spandex fibers away from the wound, prodding it cautiously. To his relief, it wasn't too bad. Only a deep graze. Any further, and it probably would've torn his muscle.

He pulled the Kevlar back into place and dashed off down the alley again. He couldn't afford to waste time. Whatever Joker was planning for Falcone, it wasn't good.

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"Sometimes it's better to light a flamethrower than curse the darkness."

~ Terry Pratchett

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_**A/N:**__ Next update should be up in a few days._


	16. Scoops and Scars

_**A/N:**__ Two points before we get to the fun stuff. First: YES! Heath won the Oscar! *insert happy dance*_

_Second, if you like my slash, then check out Lauralot's stories. I don't usually go for Joker and Jonathan Crane as a pairing, but some of the scenes in her story __**Act Like We Are Fools**__ are quite priceless. I might mention a certain drinking scene…or the blood in the bathtub… If clowns and scarecrows aren't your thing, then try her __**Mad Friends,**__ about Scarecrow's new therapist, a Dr. Quinzel. All of her stuff is well worth reading._

_Enjoy!_

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"Horror stories show us that the control we believe we have is purely illusory, and that every moment we teeter on chaos and oblivion."

~ Clive Barker

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When Alberto Falcone came to, he knew he was in trouble. He just didn't realize quite how much.

He was tied to a chair with what felt like duct tape, judging by the unpleasant, sticky burning feeling. Well, that wasn't good. He didn't recognize his surroundings. That was worse. It looked to be some kind of warehouse or storage building, all faded concrete and dim bulbs. Probably in the Narrows alley maze somewhere, though that didn't help much.

Most disturbingly, there was a clown, grinning literally from ear to ear and toying with a… something.

It had a handle. It was long and pointy and silvery. Logic demanded that it was a knife. It wasn't.

Alberto blinked, astonishment overriding his initial and far more sensible fear.

"Is that a…_potato peeler_?"

Joker shrugged.

"Yeah, so?" he asked, flipping it idly from hand to hand. His favorite knife, the sleek little one with a slot in the blade, had gotten lost somewhere in the gameshow studio, and this potato peeler was the closest thing to it he'd been able to find. It had a cutting edge, anyway. That was all he _really_ needed. Even a butter knife would do, but it would be much messier. Though that could be fun, in the right circumstances…

"Isn't that kind of weird?" Alberto inquired, losing all sense of self-preservation. "Just a _little_ crazy?"

"Well, what does it matter," Joker asked casually, "as long as it cuts?" Alberto didn't notice the faint warning in his voice that would have told anyone else just how foolish speaking again would be.

"Yeah, but it looks stupid," he snorted. "I mean, a guy dressed as a _clown_, holding a potato peeler? A gun or grenade or somethin' would be _much_ scarier. Even a cream pie, for chrissakes."

Joker's ever-present grin crawled up his cheeks, stretching the scars to their limit.

"Look," he said pleasantly, the silver blade spinning a deadly blur around his hand, "shut up, or I'll, ah, be forced to recreate _The Shining_ with _my_ potato peeler here and _your_ face. We could ex-_periment_, find out just how, uh, _scary_ a potato peeler can be. Ya wanna give it a go?"

Alberto's self-preservation chose that moment to come back, landing with a distinct thump in the pit of his stomach. He decided that it might be best not to push the loony too far. He shut up.

"_That's_ better," the Joker declared with some satisfaction. "So you wanna know how I got these scars?" He ignored Alberto silently shaking his head, eyes beginning to bulge out of their sockets.

"Well, all right," he began, dark eyes gleaming. "If you _insist_. So in college, I took drama, right? Figured it would, uh, help me learn to lie convincingly, read people, all that. And I was good. _Real_ good." He licked his lips, eyes darting crazily around the room. The potato peeler came to rest on Alberto's neck, the sudden cold a shock against his overheated skin.

"An' it was all goin' great, until one year, they decided to do _Sweeney Todd_. An' I was Judge Turpin. Well, uh, the guy playin' Sweeney…he was datin' the girl playin' Mrs. Lovett, right up until opening night. Then she left him. For _me_. Can't say I wasn't happy, she was a good lookin' babe. _Bea_-utiful. But Sweeney…was he ever _pissed_. So that night, he brought a _real_ razor to the show." The Joker paused to lick his scars again, tongue flicking out to swipe at the edges of them, eyes still leaping and scratching at the bare walls.

"Well," he giggled, "it's the middle of the show, and he, uh, he puts it to my throat, just like he's s'pose to, only it's not plastic, no, it's _steel_. Ya ever had steel pressed to your throat?" he asked conversationally. Alberto didn't dare answer, the Joker's potato peeler still tight against his neck. It was without a shadow of doubt, he decided, eyeing the blade, the most threatening vegetable-related item he had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on.

"It's unmistakable," Joker went on. "Un-mi-**stak**-able. So I, uh, I realize he's really plannin' on doin' it, he's really gonna kill me in front of the entire audience!" He began giggling uncontrollably, his hand shaking on Alberto's neck. "So I, I _freak_. I jump up, and he realizes I know what's goin' on, so he swings at me, tryin' to slit my throat, but he, he _misses_. Gets me here instead," he chuckled, indicating the messier of the two scars. He leaned closer, his sour breath washing over Alberto's chin and nose.

"So it hurts," he said brightly. "Like hell. But, eventually, it starts to heal. But it looks too uneven, and I, I just can't stand it. So I take a box cutter, and I do _this_," he purred, now fingering the long, clean scar. "An' now it looks fine, and even better, I'm always smilin'! I can't be unhappy!"

He cocked his head like a bird, but there was more wolf in his eyes and face than there was sparrow.

"Now you," he hissed, pressing the blade a little harder. "_You_ look far too serious. Not good for a kid to be so serious. Gives ya lines, and you'll never be as pretty as _me_," he trilled, dead-grass-colored teeth barred in a feral grin. "I should help ya out. My favor to the newbie. A, uh, constant _re-minder_ of exactly _who. Runs. This Town_," he snarled, face only centimeters away from Alberto's.

The blade pressed against his gulping throat like a lover's caress, choking off his desperate pleas and excuses. _Would he do it?_ Falcone wondered, eyes latched onto the man who was, by now, leaned over so far he was practically sitting on his lap. The answer came instantly. _Yes._

There was no pity in the Joker's eyes as he pressed the blade harder, smirking to see the little Mafioso squirm. This was a fun diversion to him, worth no more than a few moments' laughter before he moved on to his next game and next limp, bloodstained toy. The more Falcone screamed and struggled, the more he would enjoy it, the longer he would draw out the cruelty. What chance did a schoolboy, even a mob-raised schoolboy, stand against savagery like that?

_Oh god,_ Alberto though desperately,_ I'm about to get killed by a clown with a potato peeler! I don't even like potatoes!_

He forced his trembling eyelids closed, and waited for the starch-stained steel to shred his jugular. Surely it would pierce his skin at any moment, it was pressed so tightly it was becoming difficult to breath. Just as he was mentally consigning himself to the scrap heap, a harsh, grating voice growled out, "Let him go."

The Joker whined in annoyance. An instant later, the pressure vanished. Falcone dared to crack one eye, and immediately wished he hadn't. Bozo from hell had been joined by a reject from a low-budget vampire movie! But there was nothing at all low-budget about the various weapons he was sporting.

"Awwww, c'mon, Batman," Joker bleated, fingering the knife. "You're ruinin' my fun!" Behind him, Alberto Falcone's eyes bugging out like a captured rabbit's.

It was the first time Bruce had seen Jack since falling asleep the night before, after watching _The Lion King_. Disney animations were the farthest thing from his mind now though, well past his mental Sahara Desert and over a couple oceans, now that he was faced with a trussed-up gangster who looked about ready to wet himself and a knife-wielding clown. They weren't Jack and Bruce here. They were Batman and Joker, and the rules they had lived by before becoming friends still held true on the streets. It was business as usual.

"You had your fun," Batman rasped out. "I need him alive."

"Why should I let you have 'im?" Joker asked petulantly, potato peeler now pointed at the Batman, though one hand was still splayed, spider-like, on Falcone's shoulder. "_I_ found 'im, you had your chance." His hand tightened painfully, drawing a gasp from the young man still bound to the chair.

"Let him go," Batman grated again, his jaw tightening.

"No, I really don't think so," the Clown Prince smiled dangerously.

"Joker…" There was a level of threat under that rasp now, the promise of pain, and quickly. Joker's eyes flashed. _Good_.

"Ya want 'im, Batsy," he hissed, teeth barred, anticipating the fight to come, "you'll hafta come get 'im. Or are you _afraid_, hmmm? Afraid that you'll fail to save him too?"

For a moment they glared at each other across the room, Falcone's eyes flickering from one to the other and back, uncertain. A beat. Two. Three. Then they exploded into action.

Alberto didn't have time to blink before Batman flashed past him on his way to the Joker, the infamous cape whipping by no more than an inch from his nose. The breath he'd been about to suck in froze in his throat as Bat and Clown locked into combat, slashing at each other with a ferocity that made blood feud duels to the death look like a loving pillow fight.

Martial artists or kung-fu film aficionados might have found the display breathtaking. Yoga masters and dancers would have thought the two combatants' range of movement impressive. Professional fencers would have found their reflexes jaw-dropping. Falcone just found it terrifying.

_How long before they try that on me?_ he wondered, and instantly began twisting his wrists in a desperate bid for freedom.

Both of the fighters ignored him, intent on the struggle at hand. They had fought before, and knew how the other moved and struck, but that didn't make this any easier.

They were well matched in zeal if not in skill, cobra against mongoose, all striking speed and thickly muscled power in an epic battle that reduced everything and everyone around them to mere scenery. Nothing mattered, except for the two unstoppable titans grappling with each other, seeking any slight detail that might give them the upper hand. All the rest of the world, it seemed, was created solely for this purpose: to give them a battleground, and a reason to fight.

Joker felt his blood sing with the thrill of it all, of forcing the Bat into the open and into the game they always played. Bruce was nice, but there was nothing and no one to match the Batman for exhilaration. His perfect dance partner. The only person in the world who actually mattered. If this went on forever, it would end too soon.

He hastily ducked a crushing blow from Batman's armor-plated hand, and retaliated by whipping the slim blade up and into his chest, seeking out the cracks between the Kevlar plates and kissing lightly into the vulnerable skin below. Not too deep, mustn't hurt his fellow freak too badly, just enough to draw blood.

Joker laughed even harder at the sight of the delicious red fluid, almost invisible against the sleekly painted black shell. Cut for blow, punch for slash. They always left their mark on each other, no matter how Batman might try to deny it.

Punch. Slice. Fists against knives, armor against garishly tailored suit. Hack. Clout. Repeat.

It seemed their fight might go on forever, but everything must end, and even the best-paired dance partners are imbalanced in some way. Batman was all bulk and strength, a juggernaut with unstoppable rage driving it and the training to channel it. Joker was lighter and faster, without the weight of the armor bodysuit and the added plus of unpredictability, but even spontaneity like his could only take you so far against truly obsessive training. Before long, Batman's advantage started to show.

Both were panting down, a thin sheen of sweat slipping uncomfortably between skin and clothing, but the Joker was definitely the worse for the wear. Batman's granite fists were connecting painfully with his ribs and shoulders, drawing a breathless giggle each time. He was beginning to flag. _Time for a change of tactics._

Joker landed one last blow, returning the one Batman had just given him, then twisted away, forcing Batman's fingers back so far the joints popped and cracked. The two broke apart for a moment and circled each other, breath hissing out.

The Clown Prince allowed the respite for a few brief moments, lean chest heaving, before leaping back into the fray with an insane cackle, slamming both fists solidly into his rival's chest. If Batman felt the blow, he didn't show it. Bruce was human. Bruce Wayne was an idol. Batman was just a statue.

The Caped Crusader barred his teeth and seized the clown by the shoulders, his shoulder own throbbing painfully, the sweat stinging the furrow torn through his skin. Time to end this.

Joker just laughed as Batman slammed him into the wall, blood trickling down his chin. Most people would think him a freak for enjoying the pain, but why shouldn't he? There was just something so utterly _satisfying_ about the solid, thumping crunch of a well-delivered punch, and the way the sudden blossom of agony made everything snap into focus so even the faded gray concrete glowed like a freshly-painted Picasso. And there was no one on earth who could hit like the Batman.

"My turn now," he giggling, licking the blood away, before lunging forward, green-tinted head colliding painfully with Batman's chin. The vigilante released him with a grunt of pain.

Too engrossed in the brutally physical presence of their rival, both of them ignored the cause of their fight.

On the other side of the room, Falcone twisted his hands frantically, ignoring the welts the tape left on his soft skin. He had to get out. Both of these loonies wanted him for one reason or another, and he didn't think he really wanted to hang around long enough to find out exactly why. This wasn't what he had signed up for.

He could feel the ridge of bone at the base of his thumb chafing against the stiff, brittle-edged tape, and pressed harder. Skin bean to tear off. It hurt like hellfire, but he gritted his teeth and pushed. At least the blood made the tape slicker.

This went unnoticed by the two combatants, still grappling and fighting, seeking a way to end the skirmish, to turn it to their advantage. At that moment, nothing existed for them but the red mist of battlelust, the other writhing and struggling against them, and the aching, painful openings in their skin where the other had indeed left their mark. This would end. This must end, or the incredible clash would surely tear apart the city.

Batman was just drawing back a fist to punch the Joker again when the clown glanced past him, towards the center of the room. His delighted bloodlust turned almost instantaneously to incredulous fury.

"Damn it," he snarled, "where'd the kid go?" Batman whipped around only to find that the Joker was right; Falcone was gone, and the door out to the alley was hanging open, swaying gently in the breeze.

Their fight instantly forgotten in the face of this new development, they both scrambled down the narrow passage after Falcone. The battle was over, the chase was on.

Batman could hear the Joker panting next to him, could see the brief flash of purple out of the corner of his eye, the clown's heaving chest matching his own. Sooner or later, their colossal, bitter feud must end. But not tonight.

They ran shoulder to shoulder, keeping pace perfectly, until the passage forked.

"Only two ways he could have gone," Batman grunted, diamond-dark eyes flicking from alley to alley. "Right or left?"

Joker snarled and raced down the right-hand alleyway, wine-colored coat flapping behind him. Batman was about to go the other way when he heard, very clearly, a metallic _click_. He froze, as though he'd suddenly caught sight of Medusa.

There was no sound from behind him, but it wasn't the silence of nobody there. It was the silence of someone keeping too still, holding their breath, trying not to be found. He felt his lips twist into a feral, terrifying scowl, and dropped into a defensive crouch. An instant later he'd drawn something from his belt and spun to face the source of the noise.

"Get out where I can see you," he rasped, leveling the rather menacing-looking piece of technology at the patch of shadow. It was only his grapple gun, but there was no need to advertise that useful bit of information.

Hesitantly, two figures detached themselves from the gloom and stepped into the ochre splash of lamplight. One, a kid in his early twenties with a narrow, pointed face and hair that looked ginger in the dim glow, he didn't recognize. The other one he identified almost instantly. He'd seen her only a few hours ago. Vicki Vale.

"Please don't shoot us," she whispered, eyes wide, though it was with exhilaration, not fear. "We just want a story, we're on your side!"

He growled again, and jammed the grapple gun back into its slot on his utility belt. "Go home," he snarled, stalking towards the left-hand alley. Both journalists moved to intercept him.

"Wait, wait!" Vicki called, looking almost painfully excited. There was a boxy camera clutched in her hands. That must be what had made the clicking sound. "Where are you going?"

"Get out of the way," he growled, and attempted to shoulder past them. They blocked him.

"How about an interview?" Vicki asked frantically, waving her camera in his face. "Can I get your point of view on the Joker? How about some comments on the killings you're being blamed for? Did you do it?"

"If I did, then you're in trouble," he rumbled, shrugging her off. She would not be deterred.

"Look, my name's Vicki Vale, and this is my partner, Mark Myerman," she said, putting her hands on his Kevlar-clad shoulders. He growled and jerked away. She continued undeterred. "A lot of the public still likes you, if we could get a story from your angle, think of what it could do for your image!"

"If you have a scrap of sense between the two of you," he rasped angrily, "you'll go home now! It's dangerous out here at night."

"You're out," Mark pointed out. It was the first time he'd spoken, and his voice surprised Batman. It was lower than he would have expected, but there was a slightly metallic bite to the words that hinted at the traces of some sort of accent.

"That's different," Batman groaned. This was like dealing with the copycats all over again.

"How?" Mark asked skeptically. "Last time I checked, this was a free country. I can go anywhere I want. Home, or the park, or back to the docks, or down this alley…"

"_Don't_ go that way," Batman growled. The last thing he needed was these nutcase interns, who apparently cared more about getting the scoop than they did about the potential loss of limbs, to meet the Joker.

"Why?" Mark asked instantly. "What's down there?"

"Something dangerous."

"Like what?" he demanded. "Would it make a good story?"

Batman gritted his teeth. Every second wasted here was a second Falcone could use to escape, or the Joker to hunt him down. He didn't have time for this.

"I warned you," he growled, sprinting away into the shadows.

Mark stared after him, then, completely ignoring what Batman had just said, turned and walked deliberately towards the shadowed alley on his right.

"Are you crazy?" Vicki hissed behind him, snatching a notepad out of her bag. He shrugged.

"Maybe, but there's a story down there that I think he doesn't want us to find."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Vicki muttered, scribbling frantically on the butter-colored legal sheets. Mark ignored her.

He set off down the alley at a jog, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow, scratching for any hint of a threat. Even with all of his vigilance though, it's amazing just how much he ended up overlooking.

The human race in general is not very observant. In a study conducted in a park, eight out of fifteen people failed to notice that the person they were currently asking for directions wasn't the same person they'd been talking to less than a minute ago. People don't often notice what's right under their noses, occasionally literally. Mark was no exception.

Less than a minute later, there was a brief, abruptly choked-off scream.

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Gordon saw to it that the cops and criminals who had been injured got medical attention, then dragged himself back to the station to file a report on the incident. He was exhausted, and if anyone had tried to attack the normally cautious cop, they would have found him an easy target. He made it back to HQ in one piece though, relying on his feet to guide him far more than his eyes. He was so bushed he didn't even notice Batman's tape-wrapped present until he tripped over it.

His lead-filled feet were knocked out from under him, and a moment later, he found himself sprawled across the damp late-night – or was it early-morning now? - pavement, staring into the wide, terrified eyes of Gotham's newest crime lord. A fresh strip of silvery duct tape was plastered across his mouth, for which Gordon was suddenly unreasonably grateful. He had a pounding headache already, not helped by his sudden, intimate encounter with the concrete. He didn't need a baby mob boss demanding his lawyer to make it worse.

He hauled himself upright, and called for some of the marginally more chipper new arrivals to find their guest a holding cell. As soon as he was sure that they had it well in hand, he stumbled off to find some Tylenol and coffee.

Much as he appreciated the gesture, he couldn't help but rue Batman's sense of timing. More paperwork.

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"Never trust a species that grins all the time. It's up to something."

~ Terry Pratchett

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_**A/N:**__ The study I referred to concerning human observational skills really was conducted. Two people, a scientist and a test subject who was not aware of the test, held a conversation in a park. When a couple of workmen carrying a door walked between them, the scientist changed places with one of the workmen, who then continued the conversation as if nothing had happened. Less than half of the test subjects noticed the switch. Doesn't say much for our species as a whole._

_Please review, feedback is one of the best tools I have for improving my work!_


	17. Loose Ends

_**A/N:**__ I realize that the first part of this chapter is a bit too idyllic, but I felt the need to give Gordon some fluff, considering I usually end up putting the poor man through hell._

_The school show opens Thursday and runs for a week, which means that I will be all but living in the theater, which means that free time will cease to exist, which means that the next update will be a little slow. I'll get it out as soon as I can._

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Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family. Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.

~Jane Howard

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It was almost two a.m. by the time Gordon got home, but Barbara was still awake, waiting for him in the kitchen and wearing her favorite old green robe. The only light was the stove's pilot light, which cast a flat, fish-tank grey glow over everything, but he could still see his wife's lips curve into a smile as he slipped through the front door.

"You didn't have to wait up," he told her, snapping the deadbolt into place.

"I wanted to," she shrugged, brushing a thick strand of her coppery hair behind her ear. "I missed you."

There was no reproach in her words or tone, but Gordon felt one anyway. He was still struggling to adjust to his new duties as commissioner, and he hadn't been spending as much time at home as he should have been.

"Tomorrow's my day off," he said quietly, hanging his battered, faithful trench coat on the hook beside the door. "Let's do something as a family."

She smiled suddenly, and for a moment, Jim could see the young girl he'd fallen in love with, on her way to becoming the woman he still loved.

"I think that would be great."

Gordon felt a swell of affection for her, for putting up with his long hours and frequent absences, and the constant danger that accompanied every cop in Gotham. She really was an amazing woman. They'd been through hell, with his supposed death, and Dent soon after, and all the threats he got now as commissioner, but they'd somehow pulled through. As strong as he was, Gordon was quite certain he would have simply caved under the weight of it all if it hadn't been for his family holding him up.

"Thanks for waiting for me."

She nodded a silent _of course_, then added, "You're later than usual. What was it this time? Another psychopath?"

"No, thank god. A mob fight this time," he told her, dropping heavily into a chair across the table. "The Falcones and the Russians, fighting for what's left of the north docks."

"But I thought the different mobs had an alliance," Barb said, looking puzzled. He shook his head.

"Not anymore. Joker killed Gambol and the Chechen, and Dent killed Maroni. They were the ones holding the coalition together. Now the remains of their gangs are scrambling to find a new leader and claim more territory in the confusion. Ever since word got out that Batman's started killing, they've been cautious, and even more so than usual in the past month or so for some reason. But tonight Alberto Falcone tried to take the docks from the Russians, and the situation…exploded." Literally.

She nodded, trying to wrap her head around the bizarre world of mob politics.

"But what about Gambol's gang?"

"They scattered, and a few of them joined with what was left of the Chechen's men after the Joker got through with them," Gordon sighed. "We've just been calling them the Russians because one of the Chechen's dealers, a bodyguard named Thorne, seems to be organizing it. We haven't been able to pin anything on him yet, but for Falcone, we're a bit more hopeful. It doesn't hurt that _someone_ delivered him to us gift-wrapped," he added with a wry smile.

"You told me the new Falcone had no idea what he was doing," Barbara said, looking puzzled. "Why was he the leader then?"

"Because no one else wanted to be," Jim admitted. "The last mob boss ended up dead, and the one before that is still on an intravenous feeding tube. It's a dangerous situation, for everyone." When mobsters were hesitant to seize power, you knew something was up.

He noticed the way her lips were compressing, and added, "It's not as bad for the police, actually, now that they're scattered. We're handling it."

"You're all right?"

It was what she asked him every night after he got home. Barbara knew every bit as well as Jim just how dangerous his job was, especially now that he was the commissioner, and it was her way of reassuring both of them.

"Probably thanks to Batman."

He saw her lips tighten, but she didn't say anything.

He knew Barbara had softened her opinion of Batman since he'd saved them from Dent, but she still wasn't entirely comfortable with a man in a batsuit cavorting around the city. He could see her point, but the city needed the kind of help that the police and officials just couldn't give. Batman was their only choice, and he'd proven himself a good one, over and over. Gordon trusted him as he trusted few other people.

"Well, I'm glad you're safe, at any rate," she said finally. He nodded

"Are the kids still awake?" he asked quietly. It was very late, but it was also a weekend, and there was a good chance that they would have decided to stay up.

"They're in the den," Barb told him, tilting her head towards the door. "They wanted to wait up for you."

He nodded and slipped across the hall to say goodnight to his children.

Babs was sitting on the floor in front of the TV, her chin in her hands and eyelids drooping. She was watching one of the Harry Potter movies, Gordon could never keep straight which one was which. Her brother was on the couch, curled up under a blanket, already wearing his favorite pajamas. Jim couldn't help but smile at the sight.

Jimmy had turned ten less than two weeks ago, and all he had wanted for his birthday was a pair of bat-printed PJs. Now that he had them, he barely took them off. Barb had to fight him for them every time she wanted to wash them.

For a long moment he simply stood in the door, drinking in the sight of his children, both of them happy, healthy, and safe. The wonder and delight never wore thin, the amazement at seeing these two perfect blends of his features and Barbara's every bit as powerful as it had been the first time he held them. It was moments like this that helped him survive his job, when he felt as though he'd been dropped into a circle of hell invented purely for the use of police officers operating on less than two hours of sleep and working in the most dangerous city in the country.

"What, no hello?" he teased quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

Babs looked up first.

"Dad!" she squeaked excitedly, before remembering that she was all of twelve and practically a grown-up now. "Hi Dad," she said again, preteen poise firmly back in place. He could still hear the delight running through her voice though, and when he knelt down and opened his arms for a hug, she threw herself at him with as much enthusiasm as Jimmy.

"Did you see Batman?" were the first words out of Jimmy's mouth. _Of course_.

"Yes, I did," Gordon smiled, hugging him again. "He was helping us."

"Is he OK, Dad?" Jimmy asked anxiously. Ever since that night with Dent, he'd been more caught up with the Batman than ever. Babs too. "The police didn't catch him, did they?" Gordon shook his head, suddenly unbearably exhausted.

"I don't think so, son."

_I hope not_, he silently added. Batman had risked his life over and over for this city, for Gordon, and this was his reward. To be hunted like a dog by the very people he tried to protect. If anything happened to him…

Jim nipped that thought in the bud. Batman was more than capable of taking care of himself, and it was silly to fuss over him like a child. Still, he couldn't help but wonder; _if Batman protects the city, who protects Batman?_

"I've got tomorrow off," he said casually, steering the conversation away from the resident vigilante, and the elephant in the corner that no one wanted to discuss fully. "What do you two think of making a day of it?"

"That would be great," Babs said brightly. She sounded more and more like her mother every day.

_I wonder if Batman has a family?_ Jim thought abruptly, hugging his kids again. He hoped so. He couldn't imagine getting through everything the world had to throw at you without one.

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Bruce stumbled through the door to his bedroom, completely exhausted. The long, strange evening had taken its toll on the already sleep-deprived vigilante, and he just wanted to get out of his armor and snooze for as long as he possibly could before the world felt the need to draw him into the action again. The world, it seemed, had other plans.

Joker was sprawled casually across his bed, shoes kicked off and the nearest TV turned up. He was still dressed in his flamboyantly colored suit and makeup, and the harsh, skull-like paint and bleary red grin looked almost comically out of place against the lush normalcy of the penthouse.

"Ah, Batsy, ya finally made it," he purred, stretching luxuriously. The sleek, if stained, purple material of his coat rippled and flexed like water as he moved.

Batman froze as though the temperature had suddenly hit absolute zero.

The sight of him, Joker, not Jack, Joker, lounging so nonchalantly across his bed had shaken loose something in his mind. For a split second, he was both Bruce and Batman, one wanting nothing more than to continue the fight that had raged for months now, the other every bit as desperate to shed the responsibilities of the city and lose himself in a night of his own choosing.

His mental struggle had not gone unnoticed.

"Bats," Joker asked with a touch of uncharacteristic alarm, "you OK?" When he didn't get an answer, he softly touched Bruce's arm, fingers ghosting over the Kevlar plating. "Batsy?"

That touch, more gentle than Bruce might once have thought him capable of, tipped the balance. Bruce won.

"Yeah, fine," he muttered, rolling the Bat cowl around in his hands. "It's just…could you wash off the makeup? It's weird now, seeing you with it."

Joker shrugged and disappeared into the bathroom, and Bruce took the opportunity to pack Batman away with his mask and cloak. He was home now, his options were no longer limited to just flight or fight. He could afford the time to think before acting. To be human.

Jack reemerged less than two minutes later, face still slightly pink from being scrubbed. Where before he had looked like nothing so much as a reanimated corpse, now he just looked like an ordinary, rather unkempt twenty-something. Bruce felt the knots of tension ease a little.

"That better?" Jack drawled, eyebrows raised. A few flakes of paint he'd missed fluttered down.

"Much," Bruce replied with relief. "Wash the green dye out, and I'll be happy."

"Mmm," Jack hummed, "not yet. I like it."

Bruce shrugged and decided not to press the point.

Neither of them mentioned the fight or Falcone. It might be business as usual for Batman and Joker, but Bruce and Jack preferred to leave their alter egos on the street when they could, and keep their two lives as separate as possible. Just because Batman and Joker couldn't catch sight of each other without getting into a fistfight didn't mean _they_ had to.

Bruce thought about bringing up the fact that Joker had promised not to kill anyone and Falcone had had a blade pressed to his throat, but decided to save it for the next time they met in costume. Instead, he asked, "What were you watching?"

"_You,_ of course," Jack said, in a tone that suggested this should have been immediately obvious to anyone over the age of two. He gave a casual half-wave in the general direction of the TV, and Bruce was equally abashed and pleased to see that his exploits as both Bruce Wayne and Batman had already found their way into the news report.

"Buyin' dinner for everyone in the restaurant, then runnin' outta the place like ya saw the Batsignal go up," Jack grinned. "Bats, you really don't know the meanin' of the word subtle, do ya?"

Bruce shifted uncomfortably, and winced as the torn edge of a Kevlar plate bit into the gash on his shoulder. He'd have to sew that up before he finally got to bed.

Once again, Jack noticed.

"Lemme guess," he drawled, eyeing Bruce's shoulder, "Gotham's _finest_ didn't take too kindly to a helping hand."

Bruce winced again. "Kinda."

"Lemme see."

It wasn't the demand that caught Bruce by surprise; it was the tone. Amused concern, not the glee he might have expected. Wordlessly, he allowed Jack to lift away the shoulder plate and examine the cut.

Jack snorted. "Only you, Bats," he muttered, prodding the wound with his long fingers, "would try to help the people who wanna kill you." Bruce didn't bother to reply, just rummaged through the bedside cabinet until he found what he was looking for.

Threading a needle turned out to be harder than he remembered, especially the tiny, cheap metal needles that came in dollar store sewing kits, with one arm going steadily numb. Jack watched him struggle for a few minutes before snorting again. "Give it here," he demanded, holding out his hand for the needle. Bruce relinquished it willingly.

He had it threaded and knotted inside of a minute, much to Bruce's chagrin. The billionaire held out his hand again, but the clown ignored his silent request, instead shoving him onto the bed and settling cross-legged next to him. If the rest of Bruce's scars were any indication, Batman was none too good at sewing. Jack had best be the one to stitch this cut up.

Bruce could sew well enough to attach a button or close a burst seam, but sewing down flaps of his own skin was a bit more difficult than either of those. Alfred had it absolutely correct: every time he stitched himself up, he made a bloody mess. Often literally. Jack's long-fingered torturer's hands prodding at his injured shoulder, stitching and applying Neosporin, were a little unnerving, but his help was welcome. He seemed to know what he was doing, anyway. He worked very deliberately and with as much care as Bruce had ever seen him use, pulling the cheap black thread taut before adding another stitch.

He had about two-thirds of the cut sewn up when Bruce decided to break the silence.

"What happened to the kid, Mark?" he asked abruptly, watching Jack thread together the ragged flaps of skin. "The one who followed you down the alley?"

"Oh, was _that_ his name?" Jack asked disinterestedly, still sewing. "I dunno, I avoid reporters. Ask too many awkward questions."

"Don't get along with the paparazzi?"

"About as well as a, ah, goldfish gets along with a toaster in the tank," Jack smirked.

"Thank you for that lovely mental image," Bruce said sarcastically. "What really happened to him?"

There was no answer, just the steadily inching sting of the needle being pulled through his skin.

"Jack…"

"I didn't hurt him _too_ badly," Jack pouted finally. "Jus' scared him a bit."

"You'd better not have hurt him," Bruce growled, then winced as Jack stabbed the needle into him with a little more relish than was strictly necessary. _Note to self: don't antagonize the person who's sewing you up._

Suddenly apprehensive, he twisted to get a look at the stitches Jack was carefully darning into him. To his surprise, they were very good. Neat, even, and clean-looking, a single long row of tiny black bars against his skin. Almost as neat as Alfred's. Certainly better than he could have done on his own.

"Thanks," he said quietly. Jack shrugged, not pausing in his work.

"Figured if _you_ tried to do it, you'd end with another nasty scar. They heal better if ya actually sew 'em up right."

Bruce was about to protest, but the words fizzled and died in his throat. He hadn't given this situation a second thought, but to anyone else, it would be incomprehensibly insane. The Joker was giving a lecture on the proper treatment of injuries to a billionaire who wasn't supposed to be doing anything more strenuous than swinging a golf club and chasing skirt.

For some reason, the incongruity of this tableau hadn't struck him until now. To anyone else, this was inconceivable. For him, it was life. Weirdness was becoming normal. And somehow, that disturbed him more than any psychopaths or bomb threats he had yet encountered.

He'd had enough fame and strangeness and danger for one night. What he really wanted was a relatively quiet, low-key day, with no one shooting at him or shoving a microphone in his face. He was sick of being Batman and Bruce Wayne; maybe there was a third option…?

"Let's go out in the city again tomorrow," he suggested, watching Jack tie off the trailing ends of the thread, "like we did last week."

"Don't you have some hoighty-toighty meetings or somethin' tomorrow that ya have to be at?" Jack asked suspiciously. Bruce shrugged in response, feeling the neat, careful stitches swell and ripple over the muscle.

"A board meeting, and golfing with someone or another at one o'clock. Fox is more than capable of running a meeting without me, and as for golfing, I'll apologize and reschedule. I hate golf anyway."

"What would ya do if I said _no_?"

"I wouldn't go," Bruce said honestly. He noticed the look Jack was giving him, and added, "I tried going out in the city on my own, while we were fighting. It…wasn't the same." Normally he preferred to work alone, but somehow, spending a day in Gotham just hadn't been as enjoyable without someone at his shoulder cracking bad jokes and hissing snide comments.

Jack eyed him skeptically, then shrugged. "All right then," he agreed, gathering up the scattered contents of the sewing kit. "It's a date." Bruce smiled.

Quite apart from how much he had enjoyed the first day out, suggesting another would give him the chance to prod Jack into taking a shower, something the man didn't do nearly often enough for Bruce's liking.

It wasn't so much that he actively avoided taking care of himself, Bruce was realizing. It was more that it simply wasn't a priority. Most of the time, he just forgot, and when he did remember, it usually got pushed to the side in favor of things like making bombs, planning heists, and annoying Batman. Things most people did automatically - _like take showers, sleep, and brush their teeth periodically,_ Bruce thought sardonically - tended to rank pretty low on his to-do list.

Speaking of taking care of yourself, he was dying to simply collapse and catch as much sleep as he could, but he still had a coating of blood, dirt, sweat, and general ooze clinging to him like a second skin. Not to mention that the smell of chemical smoke was following him in an almost visible cloud. He'd better clean up first.

"I need a shower," Bruce told Jack as sardonically as he could while fighting the urge to sink to the carpet and fall asleep right there. Forget the bed. "Think you can go ten minutes without blowing anything up?"

"Well, no _guarantees_," Jack yawned, curling up on the king-sized bed. "Jus' make it quick." He seemed to have intention of moving unless someone was threatening to incinerate all of Gotham, and possibly not even then, unless they promised to let him set the fire himself. Bruce thought it was safe enough to vanish into the massive bathroom.

Jack must have been every bit as exhausted as he was, Bruce decided. It had been a long day.

He'd certainly had worse days, but this one was simply stressful, like walking around with the sword of Damocles hanging over his head. Except replace the sword with a running chainsaw, and add a rodent of some description gnawing on what was left of the rope. That would be a little more accurate.

Oh well. It was over. Maybe tomorrow would be less nerve-racking.

Yeah. And maybe Gotham would suddenly do an about-face and become a utopia to rival Metropolis.

Ah well, he decided, stripping off the remains of his armor, a man could dream.

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"Normal is an ideal. But it's not reality. Reality is brutal, it's beautiful, it's every shade between black and white, and it's magical. Yes, magical. Because every now and then, it turns nothing into something."

~ Tara Kelly

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_**A/N:**__ Any thoughts on what they should do? I've got a few ideas, but I'm always open to suggestions._


	18. Stubborn

_**A/N:**__ Thanks to everyone who left a suggestion for what our odd couple should do! A few of them will come in next chapter. Apologies for not replying to reviews, I do appreciate every one of them!_

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You may think that in life, a lot of things happen to you along the way. The truth is, in life, you happen to a lot of things along the way.

~ Unknown

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Bruce was woken rather earlier than he would have liked by some kind of electronic chirping.

At first, he thought he was imagining it. But as he slowly came awake, being towed unwilling out of the depths of sleep he'd drifted into so happily, he realized it was much too insistent to be anything he'd dreamt up.

Once he'd established that it was real, he decided to try blocking it out. _Maybe if I ignore it, it'll give up and go away._ It hadn't worked the last twenty times he'd tried that tactic, and it had yet to work when dealing with supervillains, but there was a first time for everything.

That didn't seem to do it either. If anything, the noise got louder, with no dazed veil of sleep to muffle it. Before long, it was positively earsplitting. But still not loud enough that he was willing to get up and deal with it. Not when the blankets were so deliciously warm, and the air outside felt positively sub arctic. If only whatever was making that noise would give up and let him enjoy it.

He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head in a last-ditch effort to get back to sleep, but the irritating twitter cut straight through the layers of linen and feather as though they weren't there at all. Close beside him, Jack shifted unhappily.

"Can't ya shut that thing up?" he hissed, turning the other way. If Batboy didn't do something about that electronic menace sitting so innocently on the corner of his nightstand, _he _would. And it would likely involve sledgehammers.

Bruce groaned and sat up just enough to slap the cell phone away, under the impression that it was an alarm clock. A moment later, he realized his mistake, and dove out of bed after it.

As he did, he caught sight of the little numbers in the corner, ticking out the time.

_12:36? Why didn't Alfred wake me up?_

"H-Hello," he yawned, putting it to his ear.

"Hello Bruce," a silky Italian voice purred in his ear.

He flinched away, as though the little bundle of circuitry and plastic had burned him. "Beatrix," he said numbly. _How did she get this number?_

"Did you have a late night, darling?" she went on. "You sound _exhausted_."

"Um, I guess," he muttered, running a hand through his tousled hair. _Darling_? "No more than usual, really." The cut on his arm throbbed dully. "How about you?"

A silvery laugh tinkled out of the speaker. "Oh, I was fine," she assured Bruce, who really couldn't care less. "I'm very sorry I couldn't wait for you to finish with your business and continue our dinner," she went on politely, "but I have shipments in the docks, and I had to ensure that the wretched gang fight didn't threaten my assets. Perhaps we could try again tonight?"

"Sorry," Bruce told her, his eyes drifting to the mostly-undressed Jack still snoozing in bed. "I've already got plans."

"Damn right you do," Jack muttered without opening his eyes, before pushing Bruce off the bed and snuggling farther into the still-warm blankets he'd been sitting on.

"Oh," the Italian belle said. She sounded disappointed. "Perhaps tomorrow then?"

"Um, I think I've got something then too," Bruce muttered, picking himself up off the floor. "I'll check on that and call you back, all right?" She reluctantly agreed, and he flipped the phone shut with a sigh of relief. He'd worry later about how to tell her it was over without provoking a temper tantrum. For now, he had a day with Jack to look forward too, without any Italians to worry about: mob, ex-girlfriend, or otherwise.

Speaking of which…

"Up," Bruce said firmly, pealing the blankets back. "It's late already." Jack snarled his displeasure and attempted to wrench the pile of cotton and goose down away from him, quite ineffectually. When it became very clear that Batbrat was not giving up on this, he decided to change tactics. If Bruce was going to force him to wake up, it might as well be for something he actually wanted.

"Only," he purred, suddenly becoming a lot more cooperative, "if we get to do what _I_ want this time."

"Which is?' Bruce asked suspiciously. The answer was nonverbal but extremely effective, coming in the form of Jack suddenly pressed against his chest and a distinct lack of oxygen as clown laid claim to his lips.

As good as it felt, he'd slept for too long after several nights of almost no rest, and right now every internal alarm was blaring at him that he ought to get up, get moving, not just lie around any longer.

"Not right now," Bruce said doggedly, disentangling Jack's warm arms from his chest.

"Thought ya said you had the day off," Jack murmured, draping himself across Bruce's shoulders instead. "That, hmm, usually implies that ya get to do what ya want."

"We're late already," Bruce told him, but there was no conviction left in his voice this time.

"Late for _wha-__**t**__,_ exactly?" Jack asked, popping the T. "It's a day _off_. C'mon, what'll one measly half hour hurt?" he insisted, burying his face in the crook of Bruce's neck. "If it's, uh, that late already, a few more minutes won't make a difference."

"No," Bruce admitted, allowing himself to be pulled back into bed, Jack's calloused hands already tugging at his pajamas, "I guess it won't."

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Eight minutes past the half-hour Bruce had agreed to, Jack finally dragged himself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to get dressed. Almost as soon as the bathroom door swung shut, the bedroom door opened, and Alfred came in, carrying a tray loaded down with breakfast food.

"Good morning, Master Wayne," he said. There didn't seem to be anywhere to put the tray, so he carefully shifted a case of Batarangs off the nightstand and set it down there.

"Morning, Alfred," Bruce replied gratefully, pouring a cup of coffee. _I swear he has a sixth sense or something._ "Though it can't really be called morning anymore."

"Well, since you told me you were taking the day off," the old butler smiled, "I thought it might be a good idea to let you sleep in."

"Thanks for that," Bruce muttered, draining the bitter black coffee. If it wasn't for Alfred, he was very certain his life would long since have come crashing down around his pointy bat ears.

"Certainly, sir," Alfred told him. "Let me know if you need anything, won't you?"

He vanished into the hall again. Only a few seconds later, the bathroom door opened, and Jack poked his still distinctly greenish head into the bedroom.

I'm guessin' the dye has to go?"

"Yes."

"Damn."

Bruce smiled and started on a plate of eggs as the door slammed.

He'd finished the eggs and a large bowl of fruit and started hunting for appropriately inconspicuous clothes when he heard the door open again. Carefully putting down the pair of socks and the pile of papers advocating cannibalism he'd been holding (he'd have to ask Alfred how that got there, he didn't remember ever promoting people as food) he turned around to get a good look at Jack.

He was dressed in the same boots and battered jeans he had worn before, but it was colder outside now, and he had added a bottle-green leather coat to the ensemble. Bruce had to smile at his choice of T-shirt today.

"'I saw the Batman and all I got was this stupid shirt,'" he read, arms crossed. "Is that a fact?"

"Well, not _entirely_ accurate," Jack shrugged, adjusting his coat. "I got a, uh, nice set of bruises too."

"Your own damn fault."

"I never said it wasn't," he sniffed, wounded pride registering in his voice as he helped himself to toast and bacon from the still-loaded tray of food. Bruce hid his smile.

Jack munched his way enthusiastically through four slices of bacon and two of toast before apparently deciding that finishing breakfast would take too long. Instead, he filched a napkin from the edge of the tray (one of Alfred's best, Bruce noticed. His butler would not be pleased) and piled it with the remaining bacon and a few croissants.

He paused for a moment, and turned around to find Bruce watching him wordlessly, his expression amused.

"Well," he asked, now adding a muffin to the stack, "what are we waitin' for? We ready or what?"

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"Just whose idea was this again?" Jack muttered as they wandered down the street. Why was it that as soon as you were actually looking for a bakery, they all vanished like gas fumes off a highway? They were in the middle of Gotham's downtown, for hell's sake, there ought to be at least one place around here that could sell them a loaf of bread.

"I don't know," Bruce muttered back. Which was perfectly true. He couldn't honestly remember who had come up with the idea or where he'd gotten it. That seemed to happen an awful lot when he was around Jack. "Keep looking."

"We could jus' forget it," Jack suggested after another fruitless ten minutes. "I'm, uh, pretty sure feeding the ducks isn't a matter of life or death for anyone important."

"No," Bruce said forcefully. He wasn't about to give up that easily, even when it was nothing but throwing bread scraps some waterlogged fowl. "We decided to feed the ducks, so I'm going to feed the ducks."

Jack mentally added the 'so there' that the statement was just begging for. For being so noble and uptight about everything, Bats could be a real brat when he felt like it. Stubborn idiot. If only it wasn't so damn endearing. And entertaining, for that matter.

"If you in-_sist_," he shrugged finally. Bruce was certain that he was smirking under the scarf, but didn't have time to brood on it as a brightly hued awning caught his eye, an unusual splash of color amidst the uniform pre-winter grey. A bakery. Finally.

"Here's one," he said gratefully.

Jack's eyebrows rose at Bruce's choice, but he didn't comment. Bruce either didn't notice or chose to ignore him, instead stepping through the door into the steamy, yeast-scented shop. He was glad to get out of the weather. It was definitely close to winter outside, and he'd begun to feel rather jealous of Jack's scarf. His nose and cheeks were a cold-chapped pink, and he could feel the blood begin its tingling journey through his fingers again as he stepped into the line to order. By the time he'd reached the counter, he was just beginning to feel warm, and to very much appreciate that fact, when the cashier rather abruptly broke him out of his thoughts.

"Sorry, what was that?" he asked, shaking his head.

"What'll it be?" she repeated impatiently, the fingers of one hand tapping a tattoo against the counter and the other gesturing to the line stretched out behind him, a few of the people in it grumbling at the holdup.

Blinking, he quickly ordered, then flattened himself to the side to let the next person by. The harassed-looking cashier pushed a bowl of cellophane-wrapped peppermints at him, which he refused. A moment later, she'd seized his order from another employee and thrust it at him, chivvying him aside so she could get at the next customer. In the few minutes he'd been standing in line, the bakery had gotten crowded.

Too many cooks in the kitchen, Bruce decided. Figuratively speaking. Time to leave.

Jack was waiting outside, eyebrows still quirked. At the sight of his friend's purchase, they rose higher still, until they were in danger of leaping off his face entirely.

"Um, Brucey…" he muttered from under the scarf. Bruce turned around.

"Yes?"

"I, uh, could be wrong…but I don't think ya usually feed the ducks in the park… herb and cheddar sourdough," he declared, craning his neck to get a look at Bruce's choice of poultry feed.

Bruce glanced down at the paper sack and frowned.

"…oh."

"Well, it'll be a treat for the, ah, ducks anyway," Jack smirked. "Not every day they get fresh Panera."

Possibly a little embarrassed, Bruce kept silent as they walked back to the park, pausing only to feed a couple of quarters into one of the newspaper boxes that stood on nearly every street corner. Jack found it oddly amusing. The man could wear what was essentially a spandex leotard, albeit a high-tech one, and run around in a cape with no embarrassment, but point out that he accidentally bought the wrong bread for something that wasn't that important anyway, and he got all bashful. Batboy was one big, twisted ball of contradictions.

They reached the park without any mishaps, due probably to the fact that they were both dressed as day-trippers. Tourists might as well have been invisible to the city residents. Nothing was a surer guarantee of being pointedly ignored than wearing a backpack and pointing a camera at anything that moved. Even if you happened to be Bruce Wayne, as it turned out. He'd have to remember that.

The sun had reappeared during the time he was in the bakery, and it began to feel a little warmer. Within a few minutes, the weather was not only bearable, but something approaching pleasant. Typically crazy Gotham weather.

Even the hardiest flowers had withered in the week since he'd last been here. The only spots of color left now were a few cardinal-red holly berries from last year still clinging to the scraggly bushes. Even the clothes of the people traversing the park in spite of the weather were curiously muted. Well, except for Jack's, of course.

All the benches around the pond were occupied by happy young couples enjoying each other's company, so Bruce settled on some grass by the pond's edge. He flicked open the newspaper, then made a noise of disgust.

"What's up?" Jack asked, sprawling out next to him.

"The Gotham Goliaths lost again," Bruce said moodily, turning the page. "The sports teams are as bad as everything else in this city." Legend had it that the city was built over a 40,000 year old giant who would one day wake and destroy everything it could find. Really, this city was a Mecca for the messed up, even from the start. Was it any wonder it attracted loonies?

"Eh, tough luck," Jack shrugged, eyes wandering curiously towards one happy young couple who were enjoying each other a little too thoroughly. They were already attracting disapproving looks from the rest of the park's occupants, though they could probably have been teleported to Uganda without them noticing, by that point.

Bruce went back to the paper, scanning the articles on the gang fight and on Falcone's unlikely apprehension. Jack scooted closer to him and began shredding the loaf of bread.

There was almost nothing in the paper on Batman's involvement, thank god. Just some speculation by the die-hard conspiracy theorists, like there was after almost everything of note now. If you were to believe them, he'd had a hand in everything from the drug-related riots in the Narrows to the election of the last three mayors and a minor alderman. Thank god he'd remembered to pay a quick visit to Vicki Vale and borrow both her notes and the film from her camera, or there might have been more than just speculation. Nothing on the Joker either, he was interested to notice, just a quick article, barely more than two inches long, which stated that the Gotham Globe intern Mark Myerman would be taking some time off for recovery after suffering a shock. He risked a quick glance at Jack, and wondered again what _exactly_ had gone on in that alley.

There wasn't much else in the paper that really interested him. Just a few reports more of the ever-present reports of robbery and muggings, and a quick clip in the business section stating that Wayne Enterprise's stock had risen, which he read with a kind of detached satisfaction.

He flipped to the social gossip pages, and paused.

_Damn it. _Vicki Vale was entirely too perceptive. Not for her own good; for his.

"Ya gonna sit there reading all day, or actually feed the damn ducks, after makin' such a fuss 'bout it?" came Jack's voice at his side. He was still tearing the bread to pieces, and seemed to be taking an almost fiendish pleasure in ripping apart each individual chunk.

"In a moment," Bruce said absently, staring at the cheap newsprint with such intensity that the agent of chaos at his side was surprised it didn't burst into flames. He leaned over Bruce's shoulder to get a look at what was so interesting, and his eyebrows rose.

"'Bruce Wayne and the Batman Connection'," he read. "Something you, ah, forgot to mention, Brucey?"

Bruce didn't answer, too busy skimming the article. A moment later, he breathed a quick sigh of relief and put the paper aside. Vicki might be able to spot things that didn't match up, but she had no idea how to communicate this to the rest of the world. Definitely a photographer instead of a writer. He was safe for now, but sooner or later he would have to deal with this.

"Slip of the tongue," he said at last, picking up a scrap of bread and tossing into the middle of the pencil-lead-grey pond. Instantly, every duck within ten feet dropped whatever ducky business they were attending to and converged on the crust in a feathery, squawking mass. "That, and an observant reporter with a weakness for Batman."

"She likes the Bat, even though he's a _fugitive, _an' lurks around in alleys to try and catch a glimpse of 'im. Even though, in, Gotham, that's, uh, that's a bit like screaming 'I'm here, I'm unarmed, kill me now.'" He sounded amused.

"She thinks he's a hero, and she wants to help him by clearing his name," Bruce told him, annoyance evident. He flicked another piece of bread into the water, the ducks watching his every motion. "Because she's a _good person_. Believe it or not, they do exist." Their old argument again. Jack was silent for a moment. Bruce knew better than to think he'd won that easily. He was sure that under the bright red scarf, he was licking his scars.

"Ya ever heard of Kitty Genovese?" he asked finally, eyes glinting. Bruce was no idiot. He saw the warning signs, and told himself that he ought to end this conversation now. He didn't listen to his own advice.

"No."

"Nice girl," Jack went on conversationally. "Lived in New York in the sixties, worked at a bar. Leaves work one night, and on her way to her apartment, runs into a guy. He rapes her, stabs her, kills her, then steals the fifty bucks she had in 'er wallet and runs off. Normal 'nuff, right? Sad, but normal. Somethin' that could happen anywhere, and 'round here, usually happens least twice a night. Well, the uh, the really sick part…" His voice trailed off, his eyes gleaming in earnest now. Bruce felt his stomach clench in sour anticipation of what was to come.

"The _really _sick part," Jack said brightly, "is that almost forty of our little Kitty's neighbors saw the attack happenin', and didn't do anythin'. Didn't try to help 'er, call the cops, nothin'. Just stood there and _watched_."

"That's the exception," Bruce protested, "not the norm..."

"Ten years later," Jack interrupted, "Sandra Zahler. Same thing. Beaten to death Christmas morning, plenty of witnesses who coulda done somethin'. Those are just the ones that got reported, there are more of 'em that no one's ever heard 'bout. An' you're trying to telling me that people _care_?"

"We got into this before," Bruce said wryly. "Last time we were out." _And I won't lose my temper this time._ "The reason cases like that attract so much attention is because they're unusual. People in general _are_ good. They do care."

"I could give ya plenty more examples, Bats," Jack smirked. "Face it. People are rotten."

"Some people, maybe," Bruce conceded. "But not everyone. And it's worth defending the city for the ones who _are_ good people."

"Yeah, the all of three honest citizens left," the man next to him scoffed. "An' all the rest want your head on a pike."

"It's still worth it," Bruce said quietly. "If I can help at all, it'll be worth it."

Jack finally shrugged. "Fine, Emily," he groaned. "Please yourself. Try to save the city that's gone to hell anyway."

"Emily?" Bruce asked, confused.

"Dickinson," Jack clarified. "The recluse poet, 'If I can stop one heart from breaking,' an' all that weepy crap?"

"Oh." Not an especially flattering comparison. If Bruce was remembering correctly, she had spent thirty years in voluntary seclusion.

"Great, and now you're gonna sulk," Jack groaned, lobbing another piece of bread into the pond. A small golden-brownish duck gleefully pounced on it and towed it away before the rest of the flock could close in. Bruce stared at him.

"I will not."

"Sure ya will, just like ya did the last time we fought."

"I wasn't sulking," Bruce insisted, tearing up another piece of bread. "I don't _sulk_."

"Jus' keep telling yourself that, Brucey," Jack laughed, flopping back to stare up at the sky, arms behind his head.

Bruce was about to protest, but his sometime friend didn't give him the chance.

"Your eyes change color," Jack said randomly, eyes fixed on the leaden sky.

"…excuse me?"

"They do, ya never noticed?" Jack asked disinterestedly, following the winter-heavy gray clouds with his dark eyes. "When you're Batman they're black an' when you're Bruce Wayne they're kind of greeny, and when you're just _you_, they're a sorta goldy hazel. Very pretty."

For once, Bruce had no reply.

"Um, thanks, I guess," he muttered finally. How did conversations with Jack always end up getting so wildly off track?

"Yep," Jack said casually, as though Bruce's thanks for his strange compliment were nothing more than his due. He abruptly changed the subject yet again. "So, when're you getting a new Batmobile?"

"I'm still working on building a new _Tumbler_," Bruce stressed. "That's what it's called." Jack groaned.

"It's the Batmobile," he said dismissively. "Ya can't call your motorcycle the Batpod an' then not call your car the Batmobile. It jus' doesn't work."

"It was made as the Tumbler," Bruce growled, "I found it as the Tumbler, Batman started using it as the Tumbler. It's the Tumbler." Jack laughed and shook his head, like a jovial parent arguing with an obstinate child.

"Nope, it's the Batmobile."

"Well, it's not _anything_ now, is it," Bruce snapped, "considering you blew it up!"

"Not on purpose," Jack shrugged. "_You_ jumped it in front of my RPG, what did ya _think_ would happen?"

Bruce moodily tossed another chunk of artisan bread to the delighted ducks.

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"It may help to understand human affairs to be clear that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused, not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people"

~ Terry Pratchett

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_**A/N:**__ The legend about the giant under Gotham features in the fictional history Alan Moore created for it._

_The Kitty Genovese and Sandra Zahler cases really happened. Kitty Genovese also features very briefly in Watchmen, as the catalyst for Rorschach's life as a vigilante._

_Contrary to the scared SWAT guy's guess, Joker did not have a bazooka in the chase scene; he had an RPG, a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Don't ask how I know that._


	19. Close Encounters

id:4488437

_**Warning:**__ This chapter does contain some language and sexual slurs, towards the end. If that offends you, please feel free to skip down to the final lines._

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"There is a theory that, in the whole world, there are only five hundred real people (the cast, as it were; all the rest of the people in the world, the theory suggests, are extras) and what is more, they all know each other. And it's true, or true as far as it goes. In reality the world is made of thousands upon thousands of groups of about five hundred people, all of whom will spend their lives bumping into each other, trying to avoid each other, and discovering each other in the same unlikely teashop in Vancouver. There is an unavoidability to this process. It's not even coincidence. It's just the way the world works, with no regard for individuals or for propriety."

~ Neil Gaiman

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Most people would have said that the Joker wasn't an animal person. Certainly most animal people would have said that. Actually, he really rather liked animals. They weren't nearly as much fun to _play_ with as people, but they made for much better company. Which was why he was so pleased when he and Bruce ended up wandering through the zoo, the sun pleasantly warm on the back of his neck.

He enjoyed all animals really, but especially the unusual ones. Dogs were nice to have around, but they just weren't as interesting as, say, a kangaroo or a giraffe. He liked giraffes. They looked so funny, with their black tongues, long-lashed eyes, and knobbly horns. Maybe that would be his next project, stealing a giraffe as a pet. Or a platypus. They were even funnier looking. Were – platypuses? platypi? – vicious at all? If he could train it to attack people, that would _really_ be fun. He'd heard that some of them, the males, were venomous. He'd have to check if that was true.

Either way, the zoo was definitely full of interesting animals he would just love the chance to spend some good quality time with, up close and personal. Pity the fences and glass were in the way. He supposed people like Batboy insisted the barriers be there, so the visitors didn't get mauled or eaten. He didn't see the point, personally.

Still, he'd wonder about that later. It was turning out to be a nice day, and he was surrounded by fascinating, potentially lethal creatures, not the least of which was Batsy himself. Not that Batbrat would see it that way.

His sometime arch-nemesis flatly refused to go into the Nocturnal Mammal House, much to Jack's disappointment. He'd been looking forward to seeing the vampire bats. He forgot to peeved when they came to the primate exhibit though, and spent a good ten minutes practically plastered to the glass, staring at the lemurs' airborne acrobatics. One landed near the glass and twitched its long, striped tail dismissively.

They reminded Bruce rather forcibly of Jack, the way they jumped around, and their wide, dark-rimmed eyes. If he was an animal, he'd definitely be a monkey of some kind. Or maybe a hyena or jackal.

Jack finally managed to tear himself away, after several pointed looks from Bruce, and they continued through the primate house. He was rather dismissive of the capuchins, but the gorillas earned a nice long looking-over. They put him in mind of several of the Arkham employees. Near the orangutans, he started chuckling to himself, wheezing giggles escaping from under the scarf. Bruce glanced sideways at him, eyebrows raised.

"Primates," he said conversationally, by way of explanation. "It's a rank in the Catholic church too, ya know. Can mean either a baboon, or a bishop."

Bruce didn't reply, just wandered down another of the concrete and gravel paths to the reptile house. Jack trailed after him. Reptiles weren't among his favorites, but they were interesting enough. Particularly the poisonous ones.

After the lemurs, nothing really caught his eye until halfway through the African section, when he noticed the spotted hyenas.

There were about ten of them, lounging on the yellowed fake rocks, lanky limbs splayed luxuriously in the early winter sun. Every now and then one would yip to the others, the cry sounding like nothing so much as familiar, hysterical, vicious laughter. Bruce felt the hair on the back of his neck stiffen, and eyed the pack uneasily. Jack stared at them fixedly, gripping the safety rail so tightly his knuckles went bloodless.

Oh, but they were beautiful, with their coarse spotted saffron coats and thick black muzzles. They looked more like small lions than anything else, with rounded ears and thick ruffs of yellowy fur around their heavily muscled necks. Fat white teeth gleamed in the sun as they relaxed on the rocks. They were gorgeous. He had to have one.

Jack glanced around to see if any zoo employees were nearby, then whistled softly. A few of the hyenas looked up, ears erect and dark eyes bright. He whistled again, patting one hand softly against his thigh.

Almost instantly, a couple of the carnivores trotted up to the fence, yapping excitedly. Jack looked utterly ecstatic. Bruce had the unpleasant feeling the clown was going to try to pet the slobbering scavengers, and was proven entirely right as Jack reached out a slender hand toward their panting mouths, his dark eyes mirroring theirs and shining with almost child-like glee.

A sudden image of Jack getting his hand torn off chased through his brain, and without thinking, he jerked him back too roughly, both of them stumbling a few steps away from the disappointed hyenas.

"Ya didn't have to do that," Jack sulked, brushing himself off. Bruce eyed the scavengers, who were now whining unhappily.

"I don't think petting the African carnivores is really a good idea," he muttered back, still watching the hyenas. Realizing that their new acquaintance wasn't coming back, they slunk reluctantly back to the rest of the pack, throwing a few deeply resentful glances over their shoulders at Bruce as they went.

Jack left the hyenas only reluctantly, glancing back mournfully until they were out of sight of the enclosure. Could hyenas be trained as guard dogs? He added that to his list of things to look up. Thank the deity of your choice for Wikipedia. He'd have to come back for them later, when he didn't have Bats breathing over his shoulder. He could just imagine his hands stroking through that lovely thick fur, watching their strong, sure jaws tear at some screaming mobster…yes, he'd definitely have to come back later.

He cheered up marginally when they came to the giraffes, knock-kneeing their way across the pen to tongue a cluster of leaves at least twenty feet off the ground, and even more upon realizing they'd arrived at the crocodile pool exactly at feeding time. Even Bruce had to admit there was a certain perverse thrill in watching a giant lizard choke down whole dead chickens. Even cooler than the Godzilla-sized reptile tearing into raw poultry though, were the jungle cats.

If dragging Jack away from the hyenas was difficult, convincing Bruce to tear himself away from the big cats was going to be equally tricky. Within minutes of arriving at the enclosure, he was utterly engrossed in watching an obsidian-black panther languorously lick its already shining fur into polished ebony smoothness, his hazel eyes following every stroke of the beast's startlingly pink tongue.

After several minutes of this, Jack started to get bored. Yes, the cat was very cool, and he knew that the muscles rippling sleekly under that cloud of fur could tear any human of his choice in two, and that those innocent-looking jaws framed by ivory spindled whiskers could rip him to shreds for a snack, but seriously…the kitty was just licking itself. What was so interesting about _that?_ It was like seeing Bruce relaxing or reading or something, knowing he could be the powerful, terrifyingly ruthless Batman if he felt like it, but was holding that part of himself in check. _Bo-ring_. The hyenas had been much cooler. He glanced around to see if there was anything more interesting in the area.

The other big cats didn't seem to be out today, or if they were, they were just lazing in the sun, like that leopard curled over the artfully sculpted tree branch, only one sleek shoulder and part of the tail visible. Jack stared at him moodily for a few moments before deciding it wasn't worth the effort. Really, the cat could've died, and no one would notice the difference until feeding time. They were so _lazy_. A bit like him, but he deserved to be, after chasing around after the Bat all night. What did this leopard do to merit such indolence? The tiger wasn't much better, lying around on a fake riverbank, creamy white throat exposed to the sun.

Lyin' around. Lion. Big cats.

He began snickering wildly, shoulders shaking with the effort of not bursting into hysterical laughter. Bruce spared him a glance, then went back to watching the panther.

Quickly tiring of his joke, Jack went back to his standard form of entertainment when all else failed: pestering Bruce.

"I'm bored."

"That's nice."

"Do ya wanna leave soon?"

"Mmm."

"I'm hungry."

"Sure."

"Should I let all the animals outta the cages?"

"If you do, I'm locking you out of the penthouse for a month," Bruce said immediately, still not looking away from the soot-colored beast. Jack rolled his eyes. Leave it to Bats.

"Well, why not?" he quibbled, now that he was sure he had his sometime-rival's attention. "They look so _bored_, cooped up like that, it'd be much more fun to, ah, see some nature in ac-_tion_."

"Fun for who?" Bruce asked sarcastically, finally tearing himself away from the panther. It seemed to sense the loss of its admirer, and ceased grooming itself to stare at him with resentful, cognac-colored eyes before stalking the length of its cage.

"Me, of course," Jack smirked. "Though I don't think the, uh, the animals would mind, they look like they could have some fun stretchin' their legs…"

"Yeah…until the police show up, and they all get gunned down. They know nothing about living in the wild or the city, they'd starve or get shot."

"They don't need to know that much," Jack shrugged. "Anything that runs is prey for the carnivores, anythin' stupid enough _not_ to run is, uh, is dead anyway."

"It's not just the animals," Bruce groaned. "Can you imagine how the city would react if the streets were suddenly full of lions? People would panic, the animals would panic…the city would tear itself apart, like the attack in the Narrows all over again."

"Yeah, so?"

Bruce stared at him. It was so easy to forget sometimes, that Jack was still the Joker, who would gladly kill for no reason other than his own amusement and for whom human life was worthless. Too easy to forget.

"Look, don't let the animals out, all right?" he said finally. "Let's go find some dinner or something, it's starting to get late."

"I saw a coupla buffalo back there…"

Bruce groaned. "I meant something from a restaurant, not some endangered zoo animal!"

"Spoilsport," Jack sulked behind him. "Trust-fund brat."

"Well, if being a trust fund brat involves not killing your own dinner," Bruce told him sarcastically, "then yes, I guess I am. Pre-butchered and precooked would also be nice, if _at all_ possible."

The acerbic response he was expecting never came. Frowning, he glanced around, and spotted Jack on the wrong side of a flock of tourists, all sporting bulging backpacks. Damned clown always disappeared the second his back was turned.

Jack had managed to tuck himself next to a rather ugly wrought iron trellis fence covered in last year's dead rose vines, out of the path of the swarm of sightseers. They showed no signs of getting out of Bruce's way, and he got the feeling that any attempt to go around them wouldn't work out too well. If he wanted to get to Jack, his only choice was to go through the eye of the storm.

Taking a deep breath, as though preparing for a steep dive, he stepped into the buffeting crowd. It was a bit like one of his training exercises with Ra's, he thought, wincing as an over-enthusiastic college student trampled on his foot. Like one of the many, ruthlessly punishing obstacle courses he'd had to run. Except these obstacles didn't stay in one place, and seemed prone to smacking him in the face with guidebooks. He gritted his teeth and pushed on. Almost there.

As he ducked under someone's outstretched arm, he caught a brief glimpse of a man at the edge of the crowd, sporting wire-rimmed glasses and a thick mustache, holding the hand of a girl about eleven or twelve.

Was that Gordon?

Still staring after him, Bruce squeezed through two rumpled-looking day-trippers and gained the relative safety of the fence. Jack considered him indifferently.

"What's up, Bats?"

"Nothing," he muttered, still staring at the retreating figures.

He briefly considered saying something, but finally decided against it. If anyone should get the day off, he thought, dodging a woman in a fluffy, tropical-bird red parka, it was Gordon.

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Jim Gordon was enjoying his rare day off. It hadn't been entirely without some arguments, of course; Babs had wanted to go the museum, and Jimmy wanted to go to the zoo. Jim and Barbara had quietly convinced her to be grownup this time and let her brother choose. They'd go to the museum next time, when it was colder out. No sense in wasting this weather. It was crisp but sunny, a beautiful day, probably one of the last they'd get.

In spite of her initial reluctance, Babs ended up having just as good a time as Jimmy, running around the zoo searching for their favorite animals, jackets flying out like flags behind them. Barb and Jim followed at a more sedate pace, arm in arm and enjoying both the sun and the unaccustomed silence of Jim's work phone.

They were all tired now, their feet starting to drag as the small family made its way back through the zoo. Before they left, Jimmy wanted to see the bats one more time. Jim and Babs had decided they'd had enough exotic animals for one day, so Barb was the one taking their son to see the rodents yet again. He was walking a little ways ahead now, holding his mother's hand, straw-colored hair poking out from under the hat she'd insisted he wear. He hadn't been pleased, but Jim had supported his wife on this one. He didn't want his little boy to freeze.

Except he wasn't such a little boy anymore, Jim realized with a slight pang. Jimmy was a preteen now, and Babs would be a teenager in only a year. He really wasn't sure if he was ready for that.

Barb seemed to sense some of his conflicted emotions, because she turned around and smiled at him over Jimmy's head. He returned her smile.

She tilted her head very slightly, and he inclined his. Yes, he was fine. She nodded and turned back to Jimmy, her loose sheet of fox-colored hair falling over her shoulder. She always knew exactly what was needed.

He watched her a moment, then turned back to Babs.

"Ready, kiddo?" he asked lightly. He couldn't imagine that the response would be negative. His normally sprightly daughter looked completely wiped out. He'd have to start making sure she got to bed on time. It was a school night, after all.

"Yeah," she yawned, "definitely." He allowed her to tug him toward the exit, guiding her down a side path to avoid being trampled by a sudden crowd.

A moment later, he spotted a figure slipping sideways through the swarm of tourists, seeming to melt out of sight behind their bulky, jostling bags. He knew of only one person who could move like that…

Jim opened his mouth to point him out to his daughter, but a moment later closed it again. If anyone deserved a day to himself, it was Batman.

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"This meets all your, ah, requirements, Bats," Jack told him moodily. "The meat's already dead, and precooked to boot."

"Thank you," Bruce told him courteously. Jack ignored him and stepped into the sandwich shop. It was small, and the tile cheap, but it was clean and well-lighted, and the fluorescently plastic food sitting on the counter looked as though it was dusted a minimum of once a day. Probably not Bruce's first choice, but he was hungry, and the food looked good. At least it wasn't a thrashing, wounded buffalo.

At the sight of them, the girl behind the glass counter perked up. It must have been a slow night.

"Hi, can I help you?" she inquired breathlessly, prying her hand off her cheek where she'd been propping her head up. Bruce could still see the imprint of her fingers as he stepped up to the counter.

"Yeah," he said, scanning the laminated menu, "can I get the extra-large beef sandwich, no mayo, and a large diet Coke?"

"Feeding a crowd?" the girl asked cheerfully, giving him a shy smile. He smiled back and nodded, collecting his sandwich.

"Yeah, you an' all your split personalities," Jack muttered behind him.

"And you?"

"Same thing, no cheese, extra tomatoes," he said shortly. Bruce's eyebrows rose, but he didn't comment. Jack decided not to break the pattern they'd had going all day, and ignored him. He certainly wasn't about to start going all health nut – life was way too short to waste on rye and wheat germ and all that other rabbit food crap – but he liked tomatoes. Always had. Maybe it was the way they looked, oozing acidic red glop like some diseased internal organ. Or the fact that they were in the same family as deadly nightshade, and had been thought to be poisonous up through the mid 1700s. Or maybe it was just the way they tasted, tart and squishy and tangy. Whatever it was, he liked them.

The girl finished putting together his sandwich, then tossed an apple and a packet of chips in the bag with it and handed it to him. They paid, and stepped outside, looking for a good place to eat.

Darkness had fallen in earnest while they were inside, and the streetlamps started to flicker on. Ever nonchalant, Jack leaned casually against one and began snarfing down his food.

His hair gleamed oddly in the lamplight, a tawny, tangled mane of brassy curls so different from Bruce's own short, dark chocolate locks. Maybe it was just the glow of the bulb, but it still looked a little greenish.

He finished the sandwich in record time, and considered the bag of chips, but they were the gross kind, made with some kind of whole grain and weird flavoring. Instead, he palmed the apple. It was one of the small, tart green ones, flecked with darker frog green, and he knew it would be lovely and bitter, with a slightly chemical aftertaste. The best kind, in his opinion. Which was the only one that mattered anyway.

Something about apples just seems to inspire reflection. There's no proof that the fruit of Good and Evil, over which Eve and Adam became the first victims of foreclosure, was an apple – it could just as easily have been the kumquat of Good and Evil, or the papaya – but most people insist on viewing the Biblical fruit as something that goes into pies and sauces. It just _fit_. Even Joker wasn't completely immune to the philosophical side effects of the fruit.

"Why not do this all the time," he mused suddenly, polishing the apple on his equally green jacket, "dispense with the playboy act an' jus' do what you wanna do?" His casual half-wave took in the length of the street, and the city beyond it. Bruce looked up, a frown appearing on his forehead. "With Bruce Wayne outta the way, you could jus' be Batman and you, it'd be much more fun…"

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

"Because I'm not like you. I don't want to be a freak full-time."

Jack's eyes glittered darkly.

"So you're, uh, you're admitting that you are like me _sometimes_?"

"I suppose," Bruce said reluctantly. "But I like having a normal life to come back to."

"I don't, ah, see the point," Jack shrugged, still toying with the apple. "Bruce Wayne's pa-_thet-ic_, do'you have any idea how much it sucked to figure out that the guy under the mask was some dopey playboy? Almost didn't bother tailin' him, when a bimbo like that can pretend to be Batman, the world's in the toilet anyway."

_Tailing him_. The words made him jump like a joy buzzer applied to damp skin. Bruce supposed it was stupid that he hadn't thought of this earlier; Joker must have known his true identity for a while before revealing himself. It was still disconcerting though, like suddenly realizing you've got an audience while you were lip synching and air guitar jamming to your favorite song, under the impression that you were alone in the house. _How long did he follow me?_ With a single quick, fluid movement, Bruce flicked the apple out of his hands and caught it.

"So you figured out who Batman was, then started following him, even though you were disappointed?"

"Yeah," Jack muttered, dark eyes fixed on the bouncing fruit. He wanted that apple.

"So why bother?"

"'Cause I was curious," Jack told him, still tracking the apple. "I jus' wanted to see what the alter ego was like, so I watched you for a while." Bruce's eyes narrowed.

"How long?" he asked suspiciously, rolling the apple from hand to hand. Jack grabbed at it, but he held it out of reach.

"Not till you tell me."

"It's my damn apple," Jack said mulishly. He'd removed the scarf to eat, and Bruce could see his lower lip stuck out in a childish pout, made oddly terrifying by the scars. He hesitated, then tossed the slightly battered fruit back.

"To answer your que_**s**_-tion, Batsy," he smirked, once he'd caught it, "fourth night. I _was_ gonna wait longer, but then you, uh, just handed me the _per-fect_ opener….I mean, tellin' me to get outta your head? How could I _not_ answer? An' I _was_ gonna get all pissed that Batboy, _my_ Bat, was really some bratty kid playin' dress-up…but then ya started getting all twitchy and Batty, and I started havin' too much fun to bother killing you right away. _Aaaaaand_, here we are."

Bruce said nothing. How exactly where you _supposed_ to respond to your friend informing you that he was initially highly disappointed in your alter ego, and the only reason he hadn't killed you over it was because your reactions were fun to watch? He didn't think even Miss Manners, the reigning empress of etiquette, would have been of any help.

Jack watched him with no little interest. Brucey's responses were just so _fun_, and twisted. Batboy was one big, convoluted enigma. Like one of those annoying puzzle rings, that looked all neat and shiny and pretty, until you shook it a little bit and it fell apart into all the separate little pieces that were impossible to put back together again, unless you were a magician or you melted it or something.

He was still wondering what exactly you'd use to melt a mind as they started walking back towards the penthouse.

They were both dressed as tourists, and should therefore have been easy targets for the hunters that stalked Gotham's streets. Hardly even a challenge, tourists, like picking off the old and sick from the edges of a herd. Practically a public service. By all rights, there should have been at least four attempted muggings by now. But some extra sense had warned the would-be attackers away from this particular prey.

Maybe it was the way Bruce moved, lean and fluid, without a single extraneous movement. Maybe it was the look in Jack's face, the feral gleam of a dog only half-domesticated who never quite forgot the taste of blood. Whatever it was, it gave that last little edge to a pair of people were who already looked big enough and tough enough and don't-fuck-with-me enough to handle themselves, so that when anyone who might have caused a problem turned to look at them…they kept right on turning.

Whatever predator's handbook the rest of the city scum had read that warned them away from these two, the five kids hadn't read it. Or perhaps they had, and the cheap, free-flowing whiskey and blue smog of cigarette smoke had driven it from their heads. No matter the reason, they failed to see the warnings signs.

Most of the time, Bruce and Jack were cautious about keeping their body language under control and acting like a pair of friends, instead of lovers. The last thing they wanted to do was attract attention in any way. The alley they were currently using as a shortcut was deserted though, and the day had gone by without a hitch so far. As a result, they were walking much closer together than they usually did, shoulders and hands brushing and quite obviously something more than a couple of friends out for a drink.

Very obviously, as it turned out.

They were barely halfway down the narrow alley when a battered bar door swung open behind them, disgorging five college-age boys like so much refuse. They were definitely the worse for the wear, stumbling drunkenly and glancing around with slack, unfocused eyes. One retched loudly, leaning against the brick wall. His friends laughed like this was the funniest thing they'd ever seen in their lives. One managed to look up long enough to notice the two men sharing the alley with them, who had paused

"Hey, faggots," he slurred, still clutching a bottle half-full of some kind of cloudy liquid. Jack could smell the fiery, malty tang of liquor from where he stood. "You're fucking freaks, queers!" He looked ludicrously pleased at having put together this insult on his own, though Bruce had to admit, given how much alcohol he seemed to have consumed, any kind of coherent thought process at all was pretty laudable. If he could add the ability to stand upright to the talent for clichéd abuse, he'd really be in business.

Jack started laughing, wild, hyena howls that echoed eerily around the stark alley and made the kids shoot askance looks at each other. Why was this guy, who ought to have been shaking in his leather boots, acting like they were _funny_?

By his side, Bruce simply watched them intently, as though they were a new species he had never encountered before and couldn't quite believe shared the planet with him. In the turmoil of accepting the fact that Batman was dating the Joker, the fact that they were both men had been completely overshadowed. He'd all but forgotten that some people would object based on that alone. He also failed to see what business it was of theirs, anyway.

All in all, it was most definitely _not_ the reaction the kids had been looking for.

One of them, not the one who'd spoken before, snarled out a number of four-letter words, making it very clear that he found Bruce and Jack's choice of companion objectionable, and outlining several unpleasant, if unimaginative, things he 'oughta do to fags come snoopin' around his part of town.' He arranged his booze-numbed limbs into what was clearly a poor imitation of a John Wayne stance, arms crossed and feet planted. A few of his companions mimicked his position. They looked like badly posed store mannequins. Bruce could see Jack's slow, wicked grin widen under the red scarf.

"Well, ya know what they say," he informed them, still chuckling, his voice wickedly light. "Homophobes are, ah…_jealous_, ya know." Smirking at their outraged, bewildered expressions, he went on sleekly, "_Compensating_…for a certain _lack_…" His eyes lingered somewhere around their belt buckles. That time, they got it.

They were utterly livid – exactly the response he'd been looking for. His own emotions, while certainly present, were easy enough to push aside or ignore as the occasion demanded it. Big, out-of-control displays of emotion always amused him, and his talent at pushing people over the edge was one he didn't get to exercise _nearly_ often enough.

"Fuckin' pussies," one snarled. "We oughta…"

"You oughta wha-**t**?" Jack asked wolfishly, taking a half step forward. One hand slid carelessly, almost unconsciously, into his jacket. Bruce would have bet the Batmo – the _Tumbler_ – that he had at least three knives concealed there.

It was about then that a few of the men sobered up enough to notice that both of the 'fuckin' pussies' they had been antagonizing stood about six feet tall, had the low, poised balance of skilled fighters, and looked above and _beyond_ capable of handling themselves in a brawl.

"Go on," Jack said, eyes narrowed gleefully. Bruce was certain that under the scarf, his lips were curled into a feral, reckless grin. "You oughta _wha-__**t**_?"

"Hey man," the one on the right gulped. "We was jus' messin' around, we're not lookin' for trouble…"

Bruce couldn't help chuckling, a sound that had very little humor in it. If there was any, it was the kind you found in ER rooms and death row cells.

"Oh really?" he asked, arms folded loosely, unconsciously slipping back into the stance he'd used so often during his seven-year absence. Casual, unconcerned, a clear message: _you're not worth getting bothered about._ "I was under the impression that that was _exactly_ what you were looking for."

The kid on the right (_the smart one_, Bruce had mentally labeled him) was shaking his head silently, eyes bugging out of his skull. However many of his wits the alcohol had robbed him of, it had left him enough to know that this was a bad idea.

"I dun want trouble," he muttered, looking around for an avenue of escape.

"See, that's a problem," Jack said lightly, hand still in his jacket. "'Cause, me…I _live_ for trouble. So go ahead," he hissed, eyes narrowed. "Make my millennium."

Bruce decided this had gone far enough. "Jack…" he murmured, his voice carrying a note of warning. Jack ignored him.

"Yeah, Jackie," one of the kids sniggered, still too drunk to realize the danger. "Listen to your _boyfriend_!"

Jack's eyes tapered into dangerous, needle-thin slits, and despite Bruce's best efforts, things still might have come to blows. Fortunately, the boy farthest right was sober enough to intervene.

"Look, s'not worth it," the smart one laughed nervously. "C'mon." He turned away and walked down the alley as quickly as the alcohol seeping through his bloodstream would allow him to. After one last look of hatred, the others followed him.

For a long moment, the strange pair was silent, staring after them.

"Morons," Jack said finally, drawing his hand out of his coat. "In this town, that kinda thrill-seeking'll get ya a knife in the skull."

"They shouldn't be doing that," Bruce said seriously. "It's fine for us, we can handle a couple of drunk kids, but what if they try it with someone who can't?"

"They're just gutless idiots, and lookin' for trouble anyway," Jack yawned, shaking his hair out of his eyes. "Let's go."

Bruce continued staring at the retreating backs of their antagonists.

"Oh, don't tell me you're gonna let _them_ get to you!" Jack groaned, following his eyes. "They're hardly worth the bullets!"

"It's not that," Bruce told him, scoffing. "Not at all. If I got upset every time someone criticized or insulted me, I'd never get out of bed in the morning. It's just…this time was different." Rather than feel offended or upset by the encounter, he felt almost curious. Plenty of people had hated him before, and made no secret about it, so why did this case stand out?

"First time anyone's hated me because of _what_ I was instead of _who_ I was," he said at last. "Or, at least, the first time anyone's ever said so to my face. I prefer the first kind. If you're going to have a grudge against me, at least make it for something I'm responsible for."

"It was nothin' personal," Jack scowled. "Unfortunately." Bruce looked at him in surprise. "I never get why ya tell someone it's nothing personal to make 'em feel better," he clarified, seeing Bruce's expression. "If someone's gonna try an' kill me, it had _damn well_ better be 'cause they don't like me and not jus' part of their, uh, their _plan_."

Bruce lapsed into silence, considering this new nugget of information and fitting it into his mental jigsaw puzzle.

"I've been called everything from arrogant to zealous, but those were some new ones," he said finally.

"Eh, insults are the last refuge of the criminally incompetent," Jack told him, yawning widely. "Jus' the fact that they were stoopin' that low meant they were hardly worth the bullets to shoot 'em, and certainly not worth the time it'd take with a knife."

"By criminally incompetent," Bruce smiled, "do you mean incompetent criminals, or so incompetent it's a crime?" He could already feel his mood starting to lighten.

"The second one," Jack smirked back. "Though Gotham's got plenty of both. Of all the things about us for them to get upset over…" he went on, half laughing, "and they choose gay! _Ignore_ the explosions and manhunts and, uh, mysterious _deaths,_ it's _so_ much worse that two guys are dating."

Bruce frowned slightly. _Dating_. He supposed it was technically true, but it didn't feel like the right word for this…well, he supposed he would have to call it a relationship, but that didn't seem to fit either. How _would_ he define the…whatever it was they had? Were there any labels at all that could easily be tacked on?

_Gay._

Gay. It wasn't a word he had ever applied to himself before, although if you wanted to be technical, he supposed he'd be considered bi. Although that didn't really cover it either, as Jack was the only man he'd ever felt remotely attracted to. He'd never really given any thought to it at all, much less considered himself gay. The concept had lurked at the edge of his consciousness with all the rest of the ready-made assumptions and typecasts, inextricably coupled with a love of theatre and an incomprehensible sense of fashion that he'd never really seen the point of having. It still didn't really seem to fit anything connected with his own life.

"Well, if it was gay they were looking for, I'm certainly not about to start wearing pink or humming show tunes," Bruce said lightly. "And I don't feel the urge to run off and join the local theatre. My life has too much drama in it anyway. Looks like gay stereotypes are just as ridiculous as all the rest."

Really, when you came down to it, he decided, most stereotypes were pretty ludicrous anyway. Like genius Asians. Lau was certainly smart, but he'd made some pretty stupid decisions. Or dumb blondes. Beatrix was a lot of things he found unpleasant, but brainless wasn't one of them. And Jack…Jack was _terrifyingly_ clever. Anyone convinced that blonds really were at the bottom of the intellectual food chain had never been stuck in one of the Joker's fiendishly intelligent, ruthlessly simple traps. Dumb blond indeed. Although technically his hair was green at the time, so did that count?

"Well, of _course_ stereotypes are stupid," Jack said moodily. "Clowns are s'pose to juggle pies, ya know. Morons."

"I'm surprised you left it there," Bruce told him, eyebrows raised.

Jack smiled slightly. "Well, I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't considering…but thanks to a bargain with a certain _Bat_, they'll live. _Although_," he went on, his eyes lighting up like the Batsignal, "if we found a woodchipper, I could recreate that scene from _Fargo_…"

"_No_," Bruce said immediately.

"Oh, lighten up," Jack pouted.

"The last time someone said that to me," Bruce informed him with a slightly twisted half-smile, "I ended up getting set on fire."

"_Really?_" Jack asked, with entirely too much interest. "When was this, and, uh, _why_ haven't I heard 'bout it?"

"I was just starting out as Batman," Bruce admitted sheepishly, "and Crane caught me staking out his apartment." It wasn't something he liked to bring up. It had happened during the period he'd come think of as the Awkward Days, and the less said about his earliest escapades, the better.

It was a moment before this new tidbit of information registered in Jack's mind. When it did, he stopped dead, before doubling over with wild, uncontrollable laughter.

"_Ichabod_ set you on _fire_?" Jack choked out. "The scrawny little twig of a proff with baby blue eyes who looks like he should be workin' at a strip club? The one that got tazed and stuck in his own asylum? _That_ Crane?"

"Assuming you mean Scarecrow," Bruce said wryly, "the man who threw half of Gotham into a murderous panic, then yes, _that_ Crane." When his supposed friend showed no signs of stopping, he went on irritably, "It wasn't really my fault, he'd already sprayed me in the face with his fear gas…"

Jack laughed harder.

"It could have happened to anyone!" Bruce insisted, giving up when he realized that his arguments were only digging him deeper into the hole he'd tumbled into.

They walked the rest of the alley in relative silence, broken only by Jack's occasional wheezing cackle. Bruce did something that very closely resembled sulking.

"Done yet?" he asked finally, as they emerged back into the downtown.

"Yep," Jack said cheerfully, still grinning broadly under the scarf.

"Good."

The next two blocks passed in a relatively comfortable, if still indignant, silence. They were just turning the corner past Gotham's shopping district when Jack stopped dead.

"Oh shit," he breathed, turning away and pulling Bruce after him. "Keep walking, and don't look back."

"What's wrong?" Bruce asked, resisting the urge to turn around.

"Only a coupla people've ever seen me without the paint," he muttered, keeping his head low and quickening his step. "You're one of 'em. One of the others is…"

"MISTAH J!"

He groaned slightly, and turned around with the air of a man facing a particularly painful form of execution.

"Hullo Harleen."

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"I have always felt that violence was the last refuge of the incompetent, and empty threats the last sanctuary of the terminally inept."

~ Neil Gaiman

"I don't think you should ever insult people unintentionally: if you're doing it, you ought to mean it."

~ Neil Gaiman

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_**A/N: **__Yeah, 3 quotes, and all Neil Gaiman. I know. But they fit so perfectly, I had to use them._

_**Random note**__s: Hyenas really are very cool, especially spotted hyenas. Look them up if you get the chance, they're extremely social and intelligent animals, and very efficient hunters, not the spineless scavengers the media's painted them as. Oh, and the male platypus really does have venomous spurs that, while not fatal, may cause paralysis, seizures, and pain described as similar to being set on fire. I think Joker should get one as a pet._

_In the party scene in TDK, have you ever noticed how Joker eats all the tomatoes off the little munchy stick things and throws the rest away?_

_For their second encounter, I'm going off Frank Miller's quote that the relationship between Batman and Joker could be described as a "homophobic nightmare."_

_Oh, and as for Bruce's little rant on stereotypes…I happen to be blonde. Writing that amused me._

_Please review, feedback of any kind helps me improve my writing!_


	20. Bruce's Mistake

_**A/N:**__ Like I've said before, I'm not an obsessive Batman fan. I only read the comics relating to my favorite characters. As a result, my Harley is a conglomerate of influences, the most notable ones being the Harley Quinn comic 'Preludes & Knock Knock Jokes' and the fics of Lauralot and Night Monkey. My apologies if I get anything horrendously wrong._

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"We...we could be friends."

"We _could_ be rare specimens of an exotic breed of dancing African elephants, but we're not. At least, _I'm_ not."

~ Neil Gaiman

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As it turned out, Bruce had been incorrect in assuming that none of the Arkham doctors had ever dated the Joker. He was currently being very forcibly introduced to his mistake: Dr. Harleen Quinzel, the Joker's psychiatrist and would-be love interest.

She was twenty-four, was doing her medical residency at Arkham, and was head-over-heels for the man she referred to as her 'Puddin.' Her speech retained a trace of a Brooklyn accent, of which she was very self-conscious. Despite this, she was confident and poised, and with good reason, having proven herself by cracking several so-called unsolvable psychological cases. She was intelligent, pretty, resourceful, and dedicated, one of the few Arkham doctors who actually wanted to try and help the patients in her care. She was an expert gymnast, and indeed had gotten a full scholarship to Gotham University on the strength of her gravity-defying somersaults and handsprings…and, more probably than not, on the strength of her silky corn-blonde hair and full lips as well. She was well aware of her brains, beauty, and athleticism, and knew how to use them all to her advantage when the need arose.

Bruce did not know any of this. He just knew that, despite the fact that he had only just met her, he did not like her. At all.

Why was she hanging all over Jack like that? And why was he _letting_ her? He hated to be touched. What was he doing, standing there with her arms entwined around him, acting like it was nothing unusual?

It was a moment before Bruce's brain supplied a name for the unfamiliar feeling rising in his chest. When it did, he immediately thought there must have been a mistake. _Jealousy_. That was ridiculous though. What was there to be jealous _of_? It was no business of his if Jack ran into an ex, or if it seemed like there was still something there. Who was he to criticize, considering the amount of girls he'd dated?

Still, it stung. Admitting it, Bruce felt like the conceited jerk he pretended to be on a regular basis, but he hadn't thought exes would be a problem for Jack; only for him. But apparently, homicidal clowns were in vogue this year, and this girl, Harleen, was the trendsetter responsible. Unless she didn't know who Jack really was? How could she not though, all she'd have had to do was look at the scars…

Really, they looked ridiculous, Bruce thought scathingly. She was pretty enough, in an academic sort of way, all trim skirt and intense electric-blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, but Jack was somewhere around six feet, near Bruce's own height. The girl was _tiny_, maybe five foot three, if she stood up really straight and poofed her hair. He dwarfed her.

That didn't stop her from wrapping her arms around as much torso as she could reach. She was practically vibrating with delight, alternately hugging Jack and telling him how happy she was to see him, asking where he'd vanished to, how he was doing, cheerfully demanding that he come over sometime, her door was always open for him and she'd love for him to stay, they could catch up with each other's news and oh Puddin' it was so good to see you…

Bruce couldn't help scoffing. At the sound, Harleen stiffened, then turned with almost robotic slowness to stare at him, blue eyes round. Clearly, she hadn't noticed Bruce before, though how she'd missed him was anyone's guess. He didn't _exactly_ blend into the scenery, Jack thought, keeping a guarded eye on the pair. The man was about the size of your average grizzly bear, with ferocity to match.

"Puddin,'" Harleen asked cautiously, "who's this?"

"Yes," Bruce growled, rumbling like a volcano reaching the peak of its eruption, "who's this?"

Jack's eyes flickered from one to the other. He swallowed and cracked a grin, considerably less cocky than his usual face-splitting smirks. Having these two together could not be good. At all.

"Um, Harleen, this is Bru… _Brian_. Brian, this is, uh, this is Harleen. Harleen Quinzel."

Bruce attempted a smile. It came out more as a painful, lemon-sucking contortion of the facial muscles. Harleen smiled back, and reached to shake his hand. It looked like she had lockjaw.

He took her hand, ridiculously tiny in his calloused palm, and was struck by the sudden, vicious urge to squeeze just a little too tight.

_No, Bruce, be polite, be unsuspicious, be trusting, be unobtrusive, be collected, and be -_

_PISSED OFF! MY JOKER! GO FIND YOUR OWN, YOU LITTLE TR…_

_- calm._

_**Yeah.**_

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Quinzel," he gritted out.

"_Doctor_ Quinzel, actually," she said pleasantly, barring her teeth in what passed for another smile. He forced his stiff muscles into a grin, the kind that felt more like a feral display of fangs than an expression of pleasure and delight.

"Dr. Quinzel," he echoed, voice as tight as his fists.

Someone brushed past them, a man with his arms full of groceries and a bad toupee clinging to his head like an animal too stupid to make its escape. All three jolted. In the rush of energy from the pitched subverbal battle, they'd forgotten they were in the middle of downtown Gotham's shopping district. _Only a few blocks from Batsy's penthouse,_ Jack thought longingly. So close he could taste it, but there was still a psychiatrist-shaped problem between him and there, and even more problems waiting to slink out of the closet as soon as he and Batbrat were alone. He could tell by the look Brucey was giving him that it was going to be a long, uncomfortable discussion.

Either Harleen didn't consider Bruce especially noteworthy – quite incomprehensibly to Jack; Batboy positively exuded some kind of _I am dangerous and kick-butt, take me seriously_ pheromones – or she was too excited about the sight of her former patient to bother with him, or her inattention was intended as a wildly off-mark snub. Whatever the cause, she acknowledged his use of her title and promptly went back to ignoring him, every scrap of her attention focused on Jack.

"It's good to see you, Mister Jay," she said simply, drinking in the sight of him like an arts aficionado seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time. "Things jus' haven't been the same, none of the others are as funny as you are an' it's been so dull since you escaped…"

She broke off suddenly, and had flicked a cautious glance towards Bruce before she could stop herself.

Ah. So she did know. But she wasn't sure if Bruce did. Good. Let her wonder.

Presumably she worked at the place Joker escaped from, he inferred, keeping a cautious eye on her. She couldn't be a cop, he knew all the cops in this town. She must be from Arkham. _Doctor_ Quinzel… She was a therapist or psychologist there? He resolved to drag it out of Jack later. Only question now was, just how _much_ did she know?

"Escaped?" he asked lightly, watching her like a hawk for any reaction. "You almost make it sound like he's a fugitive."

She was good, he'd give her that. Within a second, she was back in control, as cool and poised as if she'd been hosting a dinner party.

"Oh, Mister Brian," she chuckled, though her eyes were still cautious, "you _are _funny! No wonder my Mister Jay likes you!"

"How do you know him?" he asked, smiling along with her laughter. She stopped giggling a little too abruptly, but smiled smugly and snuggled closer.

You didn't get far in the ranks of Gotham's criminal elite, much less make it to the top of the heap, without being able to tell when the feces were on the way up and about to get sucked into the jet intake. Jack started looking for opportunities to make an exit.

"That's between him an' me."

Bruce mentally underlined and circled in red Sharpie his decision to persuade Jack to tell him what was up.

"How 'bout you?" she asked politely. "Why d'you know him?"

Bruce could probably have answered with a polite but ambiguous explanation. He could have simply lied. He could very easily have thrown her own words back at her. He did none of those.

"Because he's always up to his ass in some kind of trouble," he rumbled, toned arms crossed.

"I don't believe," Harleen said archly, pressed against their mutual interest like a cat demanding to be stroked, "that his _ass_ is any concern of yours, hmm?"

_If only she knew_, Jack thought sulkily, keeping his mouth shut. If he could just find a way to escape this alley without Brucey going berserk or Harleen turning into a vampire or something…

Bruce muttered something under his breath about psychotic blondes. Harleen's eyes narrowed.

"You think I'm just some dumb blonde?" she hissed, so venomously that Bruce automatically reached for a nonexistent Batarang. "You think I'm just another bubble- headed blonde bimbo? Well, joke's on you, _buster_! I'm not even a real blonde!"

The incognito Batman eyed her guardedly. The girl looked about as physically imposing as a fluffy little blue-eyed kitten wrapped in a damp towel – actually, she looked like the prototype Asylum Barbie, hitting the shelves of psych hospitals near you -, but her voice was promising him that if she _ever_ found him alone in a dark alley, Lucifer would have to call in the builders and begin construction on a new circle of Hell.

"I _think_," Bruce began, voice a low and ominous growl, but before he could expound on that, Jack seized his chance. It was probably for the best. Harleen already looked hot enough under the collar to boil a lobster, and if Bruce had gone on to add _therefore I am_ to his previous statement, Jack might just have been forced to push him off a building. Not even Batman was allowed to get away with lines that terrible.

"Well, it's been great to see ya, doll," he told her, giving her a quick hug and practically dragging Bruce down the street, "but time's a-tickin', things to do, places to be, stuff to blow up, so I'll see ya around…"

Harleen watched them go, jealousy etched in her face. She _hated_ seeing her Puddin' with anyone else. She'd reduced one of the younger interns at Arkham to hysterics when she'd requested to sit in on a therapy session and Joker had started paying too much attention to her. And now he was arm in arm with that Brian, who looked like he should be an underwear model. That was supposed to be her next to him, dammit, _her_! She was the one who had helped him break out of Arkham after all, she would do _anything_ for him. What had this Brian guy done to prove himself?

The fact that her Puddin' was with another man didn't really phase her. He was her Mister Jay after all, he'd do what he liked, whatever the deal between those two was anyway. But Harleen refused to be used and tossed away the very next time a shiny new toy showed up. _She_ was his number-one girl! She had to find a way of getting her Puddin's attention again. She had to.

She was considering changing his permanent record at Arkham to show that he was perfectly sane and, in fact, a genius, which was pretty obvious anyway, when she had a new thought.

Mister Jay had a lot of henchclowns, but no hench_girls_. No wonder things went wrong so frequently. It couldn't be easy, running a crime ring with only escaped mental patients for help. He needed a right-hand woman, one who could carry out his orders, get things done, and look good doing it. And she was just the lass for the job.

She couldn't do that as Harleen Quinzel though. She'd have to have a new persona, one who could bravely go where no ordinary psychiatrist had ever gone before, and she'd need a new name to go with it. But what?

She rejected Jester as too close to Joker, and Lavender as too frooffy, even if purple was his favorite color. Fool of Hearts likewise went out the window. She liked Hell's Belle, but in the end she decided it sounded too much like a supervillainess motorcycle gang. She knew she was getting really desperate when she was considering Clown Woman, and was just about to take a break from plotting and go finish her shopping when the perfect idea struck her.

What about the nickname her Puddin' had given her? Harley Quinn? Harlequin. The jester to his Joker. Well, it was a little too obvious, she had to admit that, but then again, there was nothing at all subtle about calling yourself Batman.

When in Rome…

She smiled and tapped her fingers, already planning her costume. Red, lots of red, and black. Good colors, bold, but classy. Skintight, just so Mister Jay couldn't possibly help but notice her. A mask, she'd have to have a mask too…

Oh, this was going to be _good_.

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Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.

~ Oscar Wilde

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_**A/N: **__Her line about not being a real blonde is borrowed from one of the comics, I forget which one._


	21. The Doctor Is In

_**A/N:**__ I had a vision…of a world without TDK…and it was…full of picture books? Bizarrely, yes. There is a picture book version of Dark Knight, and it is…well, you have to see it to believe it. It's about the most cracktastic thing ever to exist. The amazing Lauralot was kind enough to link me to some scans, which can be found here. Remember to take the spaces out._

http:/ i158. photobucket. com/ albums/ t92/ Lauralot/ icanread4. jpg

http:/ i158. photobucket. com/ albums/ t92/ Lauralot/ icanread1. jpg

http:/ i158. photobucket. com/ albums/ t92/ Lauralot/ icanread. jpg

http:/ i158. photobucket. com/ albums/ t92/ Lauralot/ icanread2. jpg

_Joker needs to be going "RAWR!" in this last one. Seriously, he just needs to._

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I really need to stab something.

~ _Dexter_

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Harleen stepped back and admired herself in the mirror. It had taken several days to get everything she needed and put the outfit together, but she was very pleased with the effect. Dying only two-quarters of the spandex leotard had been a pain in the posterior, but it was worth it.

She looked like someone to be taken seriously. True, maybe the red and black jester's hat was a bit much, especially with the white pom-poms at the tips, but the suit made up for that. She'd done a good job on it.

It had turned out that getting a supervillain costume was a little more complicated than walking into a tailor's shop and filling out an order form, complete with information about who wanted it and where to ship it to once it was finished. And how exactly did you decide what it should look like and be made out of anyway? In the end, she'd just bought a red leotard from a local dance supplies shop and done the work herself. Which had been slow and painful. But totally worth it. OK, so maybe a few of the diamond shapes she'd painted on the right leg were a little uneven, but it looked fine. Those had been practice, and the rest had come out perfectly. Her left leg and right arm were a sulfurous, smoky black, while her right leg and left arm were red scattered with little black diamonds. A court jester with a femme fatale twist.

She turned to admire the dye job and grinned again; just another young woman who'd found the perfect outfit for a night on the town.

Using a dance leotard had definitely been the way to go. Just wearing it reminded her of her gymnastics days, and it was so easy to move in, she was tempted to turn a few handsprings just for the fun of it. She pushed that urge aside. Not without warming up first, and not in her shoebox-sized apartment. She'd probably punch through the wall by accident. Still, the feeling was nice. Not only did the clingy red and black fabric flow along with her every motion, it showed off her generous curves to perfection, accented by the white lace collar that stopped just short of the swell of her breasts. There _were_ certain benefits to doing it yourself.

The costume was flawless. Now it was time for the makeup.

She'd given some thought to this. It had to be similar to Mister Jay's, but cleaner, more feminine. In the end, she'd settled on a white base like his, but a black latex mask around her eyes instead of the smeary raccoon rings. Her lipstick would be the same shade of ruby slippers red as his too, but she'd apply it a little more carefully than he did.

She pursed her lips and finished tracing the waxy tube along the edges, before drawing it away with a satisfied smack. Perfect. She looked rough, tough, and ready to have fun, and she felt utterly invincible, as though she could take on the world.

Just wait until her Puddin' saw her.

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Harleen Quinzel's residency at Arkham had been as uneventful as it was possible for any job that involved working with the criminally insane to be, until the terrorist known as the Joker was assigned to her care. Name unknown, age unknown, mental condition unknown, no previous records, nothing to work with. That was no problem to Harleen. She liked a challenge.

She'd come in top of her class, and had been an intern for almost two years, but this was still a very high-profile case, far above what your average student would be expected to handle. Except that she'd been on vacation in Metropolis for the duration of what were now called the Joker Attacks. As such, she'd been chosen as his therapist because she was the only qualified staff member who hadn't been directly affected by his actions, and thus would be relatively unbiased in evaluating him.

That was the idea, anyway. And while it made good sense, her superiors were still leery of handing the case over to a rookie, even an especially talented one. In the end, they'd had to relent. Harleen had been delighted. Whoever said slacking didn't pay? If this was what happened when she took time off, she ought to go on vacation more often! In practice, the theory hadn't worked so well.

Or, if you were to ask her, it had worked very well indeed. She's succeeded in establishing patient/counselor trust with him, after all, where no one had managed to before. Around her, he'd started talking, instead of clamming up or spitting taunts. So what if what he talked about was anarchy, and how the world would come crashing down if it lost sight of its pathetic rules? So what if it made sense? So what if she listened? The important thing was that he was actually talking, after all. They were making progress.

So much progress, in fact, that she hadn't seen the need for him to stay in Arkham. He clearly knew exactly what he was doing; he was no loony. Her superiors had disagreed. So she'd made the decision on her own.

There was no point keeping someone like that under lock and key. It was cruel, really, keeping him caged up like an animal all the time. He'd never improve that way. She was his psychiatrist; she knew what was best for him. That was her _job_. So she introduced a new kind of therapy to his daily schedule and helped him escape. It really was ridiculously easy. Even with the millions Wayne had poured into the security there, there were far too many blind spots and staff lapses to really expect the villains to stay where they were supposed to. Especially if they had a little help from someone who'd studied the system in detail.

Helping him escape had been thrilling. Slipping through the corridors, his lanky figure following obediently behind her, chest tight with excitement, with _fear_, wondering if anyone would figure it out… The sheer risk of it dazzled her, the exhilaration and rightness of her crusade leaving her blood tingling. She was restoring the city to the way it should be, its natural balance. If they weren't going to bother locking up the Batman, the real nut, they shouldn't lock up the sane ones either. This was _right_.

The thrill of success, and then…nothing. Not a card, not a note, not a phone call or messenger pigeon or semaphore signal or anything. She supposed it was a good sign – it meant he wasn't getting recaptured, after all – but she missed him. No one else was quite as exciting or fascinating as he was, none of her other cases made her heart jump into her throat in quite the same way. Even psychoanalyzing her former boss, Dr. Crane, lost its appeal after a while.

And then she'd seen him walking down the street like he was out on a Sunday stroll, walking not with her, but with someone she didn't know, some guy. He wasn't important. Her Mister Jay was the important one. He was hers and hers alone, he shouldn't be pretending to be one of masses who couldn't recognize his genius, couldn't see the amazing brilliance they had been gifted enough to witness in action. And he especially didn't belong with some bimbo who didn't even know who he really was, not when _she_ was available to him.

That shouldn't be. And Harleen had never been one to sit around and mope, like some weepy fairytale brat. Nothing to do but take matters into her own very capable hands.

She was cheerful at the thought of seeing him again, almost humming as she stuffed various supervillainess essentials into a faded nylon backpack. This would be good. Work had been demanding more and more of her time lately, and she hadn't had a night off in ages. It was high time, she decided, slipping a long coat on over her jumpsuit, that she treated herself to a night on the town.

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The talk with Bruce had gone every bit as badly as Jack had thought. They were still speaking, at least, but to say both were pretty annoyed with each other was putting it lightly. It was almost certainly a good idea for them to get away from each other for a while, and Jack was more than happy to escape for a few hours and go back to his nice, straightforward plots to overthrow the city. He only had to make it to his latest hideout, this time in an old factory on the coastal edge of the Narrows, and he could kick back and relax a little, maybe set an explosion to blow off some steam. Just one more block.

Really, was it his fault if they happened to run into an acquaintance and she started getting clingy? No need for Batsy to get quite so mistrustful; he was allowed a social life too. Did Bats think that he was the only one permitted to have stalker exes? Even if he and Quinzel had never actually officially dated. _She_ was convinced they had though, which was enough to convince Brucey. Apparently she counted therapy sessions, rec room brawls, and smuggling her patient out of the asylum as dates. On the slim to zero chance that he did actually do anything even vaguely romantic and date-like, would she consider it a marriage proposal? Even the thought made him wince.

Being between the two of them had been a bit like being back in the police interrogation room, where anything he said could, and probably would, be used against him. Except the stakes here were much higher than anything the cops could throw at him.

For being all noble and selfless and all that crap, Batboy could be surprisingly bitchy when he felt like it, and Jack was getting sick of trying to pound it through the Kevlar cowl that no, he and Harley were _not_ an item and never would be, she was just overly clingy and couldn't take a hint. Rather like Brucey's little just-for-show broads…at which point they usually started quarreling again.

Being a supervillain was astonishingly simple by comparison. This relationship stuff was _hard_. How did two people ever manage to spend their lives together without blowing each other up?

Back to being the Joker though. That was easy. That was fun. No angry Brucey demanding to know who that girl was, no squeaky little psychotic psychiatrists, nothing to do but set fires, irritate the cops, and boss the henchclowns around…

"Bull, and _shit_," he heard someone say in a tone of great satisfaction. He froze. That voice was too high to be any of his henchclowns, unless one of them had had a _very_ successful sex-change surgery. There was a woman in his headquarters.

When Joker recruited henchmen, he generally didn't get a lot of female volunteers. None, in fact. He didn't give much thought to it, and left anyone interested to make of that fact whatever the hell they wanted. As long as he could get the muscle he needed, he wasn't too concerned.

So why was there suddenly a creature of the feminine variety loitering around _his_ lair? If one of the henchclowns had brought his girlfriend over…

Cautiously, he pushed the door open, and stopped dead. For some reason that eluded him, his ex-therapist was not only present, but wearing a volcano-red jumpsuit quartered with black, and a jester's hat to match. It even had fluffy puffballs on the tips.

"Hiya, Mister Jay," she said brightly, waving a fanned-out hand of cards at him. She was seated cross-legged on a rickety table, playing some sort of card game with a burly clown whose name he couldn't be bothered to learn and one of the longest surviving of the henchmen so far, a guy named Lewis. She seemed to be winning.

"Wha-_tuh_, _exactly_ are you doing here?" Joker finally managed to choke out.

"I thought you could use a hand," she said cheerfully, hopping off the table in a way that had every male eye in the room fixed directly on her, "so I made a costume an' came to help you. Now I'm Harley Quinn, your henchwench."

"…excuse me?"

"I made cookies too," she said, pointing proudly to a garishly colored tray full of lightly burned blobs.

"The Dark Side really does have cookies," Lewis piped up with a wry grin. He caught sight of the look Joker was giving him, and hastily bent over his oatmeal raisin pastry again.

_Damn it, damn it, damn it, DAMN IT. _The newly christened Harley Quinn might actually have made a good sidekick, or at least an attractive toy, in the right circumstances, but these were _not_ the right circumstances. She'd be just a _little_ more interested than the rest of the clowns in just where the boss vanished off to every night, and he could not let her know about his ongoing fling with Batbrat. This had to be dealt with.

Joker's only consolation was that most of the henchclowns need never know of this. Thank whatever divinity you chose to lavish attention on – he kind of liked the Flying Spaghetti Monster, although he supposed the Invisible Pink Unicorn had its benefits too – that he didn't keep all the clowns on hand at all times. Lewis and the other guy were just here to keep an eye on the lair and round up the rest if he needed them, and both of them had been around long enough to know when it was a good idea to clam up. That shouldn't be a problem. But he'd have to get rid of her first.

Harley was stubborn. Telling her outright that she was about as welcome as a dead wombat in the punchbowl would only encourage her to try harder to win his approval. He'd have to come up with something else, something more subtle, and maybe just a little – ugh - romantic, so that she'd be too starry-eyed to catch wise immediately.

"Harley," he said mournfully, drawing her aside and shooing the henchclowns back with his other hand, "it really was…_sweet_ of ya, to go to all this trouble, and I appreciate it, I really do, but really…ya can't be my, uh…henchwench. It just won't _work_."

For a moment she simply looked startled, but then his words sank in, and suspicion began to creep into her features. Which really was quite a feat, considering how much paint she'd slathered over them.

"It's not that Brian guy, is it?" she prodded, mistrust coloring her voice. "'Cause if he's the reason you don't want me…"

"Who said I didn't want ya?" Joker asked with exaggerated shock. "I do want ya, more than anything." Another lie. Ten Hail Marys and a slap on the wrist. "You're the only gal for me, doll." Not _quite_ a lie. Actually, there was no girl for him, not since he had Batman. "An' that's the _problem_. You _know_ how crazy it gets, beautiful, you see the villains in the Arkham infirmary after the Bat brings 'em in. I don't want that to happen to _you_. Look, listen, why do ya wanna be a henchman anyway?" Harleen wasn't stupid; surely she'd noticed how many of his associates ended up with mysterious and invariably fatal puncture wounds?

"Hench_wench_," she corrected. "'Cause I kept thinkin' about when I helped you escape, and I thought if I could help you as a doctor, I might be able to help you as a villain too…"

Damn, damn, and double damn. She'd gotten a taste for excitement. He should have just escaped on his own and left the little twit out of it. He soldiered on.

"Not a good idea, babe," he told her gamely. "With you around, I'd be too worried 'bout ya to focus on my job, the best way you can help me is by stayin' safe and, ah, outta the way." _Out of __**my**__ way._

At least part of the ploy had worked. He could see Harley melting like sugar under a blowtorch at the ridiculously sappy reasons he'd given, but he could also see that she was getting ready to argue with him.

"But Puddin,'" she began, but he cut her off. He did not need to be arguing with his former therapist, he did not to spend even more of his precious time trying to sort out relationship issues, and if the henchclowns _ever_ heard him referred to as 'Puddin,' not even his agreement with Batsy would be able to save them.

"No buts, doll. I jus' don't want you to get hurt," he told her gallantly, chivvying her out the door. Before Harley could protest, he'd slammed it shut behind her. The slight scratch of a bolt slamming into place reached her ears.

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Joker leaned against the gate and allowed himself a sigh of relief. She'd finally gone. Thanks to her though, his euphoria had been ruptured as effectively as a Batarang through a balloon. If he was to enjoy this evening at all, someone, somewhere, was going to have to _suffer._

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On the other side of the door, Harley was glaring at the steel as though wishing it a painful, fiery death and a long incarceration in whatever kind of hell existed for non-organic elements. That just wasn't fair. He could have at least given her a _chance_ before refusing to allow her anywhere near his operations. Even if he did have a good reason.

That was just so sweet, and so like him. And so frustrating. He was an absolute darling to be worried about her, but she could handle herself, she hadn't come unprepared. Did he really think that she would be a hindrance to him? That thought hurt more than any wound sustained in helping him could ever have.

He _was_ right though. She'd seen the kind of injuries the supervillains came back to Arkham with, after the Bat got through with them. Being a villain in this town was a high-risk career, as long as Batman was out there. Not even Mister Jay himself was safe.

If only her Puddin' didn't have to worry about protecting her from the big bad Bat…

She paused, a new idea taking root in her mind. Taking out the Batman would certainly get her Mister Jay's attention…and with the Bat out of the picture, he'd have time to thank her properly…if she got rid of his greatest foe for him, he'd be so impressed he'd realize he didn't have to fret about taking care of her, and realize that she was obviously the right one for him…

It was with that thought in the forefront of her mind that she began walking home, planning her revenge on the Batman. She wasn't very mindful of her surroundings, stumbling and weaving a little, and periodically slashing the air with a knife she'd found in the back of her cutlery drawer. It had seemed like a good thing to bring along on her first night as a supervillainess.

"Show him," she muttered, slicing haphazardly with the dull knife, "thinks he can mess with my Puddin,' hah!" She really should have been more cautious. A supervillainess and henchwench extraordinaire she might be, but she was still a girl out alone past nightfall, and in Gotham, there was good reason to be afraid of the dark. It wasn't long before her mumblings attracted unwanted attention.

Finally tiring of disemboweling imaginary Batmen, she leaned against the dirty brick of an alley wall and pulled the hat off, letting her wheat-colored hair spill down around her face. This villainess stuff was going to be harder than she thought. She'd have to find a way of drawing the Batman out, maybe make a name as a supervillainess and use herself as bait…

No point in starting tonight though. She'd need some sleep if she was going to make it through work tomorrow. With a sigh, she shoved the jester's hat and knife in a side pouch of her backpack and pulled her coat around her, hiding her eye-catching costume from sight. Gripping the backpack with both hands, she slipped down another alley, part of the maze that would take her most of the way home.

She hadn't gone more than a few blocks though when she became aware that she was sharing alleyspace with someone else. The hair on her arms started to rise, some primal sense left over from the days when saber-toothed cats were an active threat warning her that she wasn't safe. A stolen glance back revealed a heavyset man in a dark jacket, and she silently cursed herself. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. She should have known better, should have known _far_ better than to try and get home through the Narrows alley maze. What was she thinking? Or was she thinking at all? She must not have been, to pull such a fool stunt, and now she had a distinctly unsavory shadow to show for it. Well, if he tried anything, she would just have to deal with him. She _was_ a supervillainess now. No need to go starting fights though, that would just be silly. She did her best to ignore him, but he had other ideas.

"Hey, gorgeous," he called in a voice that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention, "why doncha slow up a bit, hang around for a chat?" Harleen couldn't help it. She turned back to look at him. One bloodshot eye winked lazily, and she drew back in disgust.

He was in the same mold as the ones who'd harassed Batman and Joker a few nights before, but this one wasn't drunk. Just stupid.

"Look, I don't have time for this," Harleen growled, gripping the backpack tighter. "Leave me alone an' we'll forget this ever happened. No need to get messy."

"What if I _like_ messy?" he chortled, closing the distance between them in a few long strides. "'Cause I do like it messy. _Real_ messy."

Before she could dart away, one hand had closed around her arm in a vice-like grip, the other pulling at her long trenchcoat. She snarled like an enraged cat as his rough hands fumbled the jacket open.

"Ooh, looks like I hit the jackpot," he leered, eyeing her clinging jumpsuit. Harleen's forget-me-not-blue eyes narrowed.

"Bit mistake, buster," she breathed, and a split-second later her foot had planted itself in his chest. He went flying back and she used the momentum to turn a graceful, if hurried, backflip, still clutching the backpack. A moment later she'd landed on her feet, face flushed and eyes bright with the sudden adrenaline rush. He hit the wall and bounced back, feet turning a frantic tango under him, trying to balance his weight. By pure chance, they found his equilibrium and propelled him forward again. Where before he'd just been looking for an easy fuck, now he was spitting mad.

"You bitch," he howled, snatching wildly at nothing, "you fucking little whore!" With an unexpected burst of speed he managed to latch onto the dodging form of Harley Quinn, fingers curling into the fabric of the backpack. She yelped and jumped back, dropping the pack. She'd reflexively pulled two objects from it as she let it fall, and fingering them, she slowly became aware that she had the kitchen knife in one hand and a rubber chicken in the other.

Realizing he only had the pack, not the girl, he flung it at her with surprising speed. Before she could duck, it had struck her shoulder, knocking her off balance, and he bowled into her like a juggernaut, thick hands pinning the arm with the knife to her side.

For the first time that night, Harley felt something approaching panic. She was a supervillainess! This wasn't how it was supposed to go! The fear lending her unexpected reserves of energy, she used her free arm to force the rubber chicken headfirst into his mouth, jamming the synthetic poultry as far down his throat as she could manage. He reached up, trying to claw the chunk of latex out of his jaws, but she didn't give him the chance. It was the work of a moment for her knee to connect solidly with his groin. He collapsed like a building her Puddin' had bombed.

Her blood still thrumming with adrenaline and her body whip-cord tight, she didn't hesitate, but slashed the dull knife across his throat. She could feel a nick in the blade catch on his stubbly skin, tearing it unevenly. A moment later she'd scrambled up and wiped it on his coat, running on autopilot, her mind curiously detached from the scene she was acting out.

He choked, sobbing around the rubber chicken stuffed into his mouth, and Harley watched with interest as the blood drained out of him in a scarlet curtain, taking his life with it. There was just so _much_ of it, and such a pretty color too, like the glowing sun just before it vanished over the horizon. It really was beautiful. She smiled delightedly, clapping her hands as it rippled over the cracked concrete, every pebble it hit changing the surface and reflecting the dim light in a hundred new ways. She felt oddly disappointed when there was no more blood left in the empty husk.

As the last of it crept into the cracks, she felt something else rise behind the inquisitive glee and heady intoxication at the newly-discovered wonders of the night, something wild and hysterical screaming that she'd just _killed_ someone, she'd ended his life, she'd destroyed another human being, her job was to _help_, to fix the mind, to rebuild what shock and violence and Batman-induced trauma destroyed, she was violating everything she'd ever stood for, this was _wrong_. She shut it down, with difficulty. This was not the time or place. She'd done what she had to. She was a supervillainess now, she couldn't go getting upset every time someone died. Shit happened. She caused it.

Still, did she really have to _kill_ him? Maybe next time – and there was bound to be a next time; she was female, only a little over five feet, and wearing a spandex leotard – she'd just castrate them. No balls, no problem.

She was silent and thoughtful as she wiped her knife on the man's coat. Consciously or not, it didn't matter, she'd taken the first big step. No going back now. For better or for worse, she was in this for good. As Caesar had put it, the die was cast.

Since she was going to be on the radar soon enough anyway, she might as well start drumming up public attention. Her Puddin' had _his_ signature. It was written all over his face. She'd need a trademark too. Thinking carefully, she bent over the body again.

A moment later she finished, and stood up, stretching the kinks out of her back. At least the spandex made it easy to move. Small favors.

It was like anything else, she supposed, casting a last regretful look at the drained corpse. It had to get harder before it got easier. She was tough though. She'd stick it out.

Harley was a naturally optimistic creature, and she couldn't help feeling just a little bit smug, against the part of her mind that still railed at her over what she'd just done. She'd successfully defended herself. _Too_ successfully perhaps, but she'd proven to herself, and to the world, that she could if she had to. She wasn't just some dame in distress. She was Harley Quinn.

It was not in her nature to spend precious time brooding on what was already done. Within minutes of leaving the body, she was walking almost merrily, a spring in her step, towards her apartment. The incident was still there, of course, but it had been relegated to a side compartment of her mind, waiting its turn to resurface.

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Later that night, the police received an anonymous tip. They traced it to an alley where they found a male corpse with a rubber chicken stuffed in its mouth, the throat slit, and a pair of diamond shapes carved into the cheeks, possibly the work of an unknown supervillain.

When the Joker heard the report, he was in an unused office building by the docks, busy toying with the man his henchclowns had brought back for him. No one special, really; one of the Russian's men. Just someone to have some fun with, kill some time and work off a little stress. He had the police scanner playing in the background, much like a seamstress might have a radio playing for the white noise.

"Now, hold still, and maybe this, uh, this won't hurt _too _much," he cooed gleefully, fingering a mirror-shiny scalpel. He buffed it absently against the lab coat he was wearing, before drawing it across the forehead of the man strapped to the gurney next to him. The man shrieked, keening like a trapped animal. Under the purple surgical mask, the Joker smiled.

"Hmm, doesn't seem to have helped. As your, uh, your _doctor_, _I_ think we should try again – over here maybe…" He raised the bloodstained scalpel again.

"Please," the man gasped, eyes bulging like a rabbit's, "my name's Frank, Frank Granger. My friends call me Frankie. My brother…"

Joker rolled his eyes. These people. They watched _Silence of the Lambs_ once, and thought that all they'd have to do was tell him their name and favorite color and keep blathering on about their life, and sooner or later he'd feel bad and let them go. Really, who exactly did they think he was? No _real_ villain worth the title would ever fall for that, only a prettyboy pushover like Scarecrow. This guy, Frankie, needed a few illusions shattered. For his own good, really.

"Well, _Frankie_," Joker grinned, "now that we know each other, let's _experiment_, shall we? Let's see how much it _hurts_ when I cut off your…" It was at that point that the report flashed over the buzzing airwaves, ruining his good mood as effectively as a spark wrecked the Hindenburg.

He froze, face twisting into a snarl behind the purple surgical mask. A moment later he'd ripped it off in one smooth motion and stalked out of the room, leaving his struggling captive still tied to the gurney, making little choked noises of relief and fear. Joker ignored him.

He'd like to find out who exactly it was that said persistence was a virtue, he thought, stripping off the doctor's coat as he went. He wanted the opportunity to demonstrate to them just _how_ pleased he was that they'd passed their priceless intellect on to impressionable young psychologists.

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Can we in fact pretend that she is anything but a woman scorned, like which fury hell hath no? We cannot.

~Jack Sparrow, _Pirates of the Caribbean 3_

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_**A/N:**__ I __**wish**__ I could claim to own Lewis, but he's on loan from the comics. Not mine at all. I'm not even the first writer to think of borrowing him; J-Horror Girl uses him to great effect in her story 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head.'_

_The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster and the Invisible Pink Unicorn are both real things. Google them if you doubt it._

_For some reason I absolutely love the term henchwench._


	22. Normal & Abnormal

_**A/N:**__ I was surprised by the number of people who reviewed saying how much they hate Harley Quinn. Having said that, I'm equally surprised how many people said they hate the traditional Harley, but don't mind mine. I'm glad my Harleen's an acceptable substitute. I like her too. :)_

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It's strange to have a creation out there, a deeply mutated version of yourself running loose and screwing everything up. I wonder if this is how parents feel?

~ _Dexter_

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Unaware of the drama that had been played out the night before in his city's inner crime rings, Bruce had spent the day wrestling with himself.

He'd decided to apologize.

It wasn't an easy decision to come to, nor was it easy to admit that he was in the wrong. Much as he hated his pampered playboy disguise, he'd unconsciously gotten used to the fact that while he was Bruce Wayne, people tended to agree with him immediately. He supposed it was probably healthy, that being around Jack meant he didn't get things all his own way all the time. Didn't make it any less annoying.

But he'd definitely gone overboard with Dr. Quinzel. He was ashamed to admit that he'd never really expected Jack to have any friends beyond him, or any kind of life beyond Joker, and was equally ashamed to admit that he'd resented being proven wrong. He could hardly fault Jack for having a clingy ex, when Jack put up with all of his supermodels. Grudgingly, perhaps, and with plenty of threats, but he put up with them nonetheless. Who was he to get jealous over one over-enthusiastic ex-therapist Jack apparently hadn't seen in months? Those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. He just hoped Jack wouldn't rub it in.

He needn't have worried. As it happened, Jack had other things on his mind.

He slipped into the penthouse rather earlier than usual, wearing nondescript street clothes, still-green hair stuffed under an unmemorable baseball cap. He'd investigated – or had his clowns investigate, it amounted to the same thing – what was apparently Harley's first kill, but his digging hadn't turned up anything conclusive, and he _really_ didn't want to talk to her in person. Maybe, with any luck, the little sap had given up on being a supervillainess, and that kill was just to get it out of her system for good.

_Is this what being a parent is like,_ he wondered, responding automatically to his Bat's somewhat subdued greeting, _having a screwed-up version of yourself running around, messing things up?_

Bruce's next words broke him out of his thoughts, dragging his mind away from the alley it was haunting and back to the present scene: the two of them standing at opposite ends of the living room, still awkward after their almost-fight, accusations and resentment hanging heavily between them.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry," the uncaped crusader told him bluntly. "I know I overreacted about Quinzel. If you say there's nothing going on with her," he told Jack very seriously, "I believe you. Sorry I went over the top."

"Well, ya should be, considerin' you were, uh, acting like a teenage girl at _that_ time of the month," Jack said sardonically, but his voice was more surprise than snark. After a moment's pause, he added, "Accepted."

Bruce breathed a silent sigh of relief. He was glad Jack hadn't decided to press the issue. He knew they'd probably always be arguing and bickering, but he'd like to try and avoid any more actual fights, if possible. At least the verbal, highly upset kind. He didn't think the physical brawls as Batman and Joker were any more likely to die out than the long, pointless arguments.

"Kay," he muttered in reply. "Thanks. I know it was stupid, it's not like she was trying to become a villain herself…"

Jack tensed. Bruce didn't notice.

If he was going to mention Harley Quinn, it ought to be now, Bruce would understand, do it _now_, it would be worse the longer he left it…

"…and as long as she isn't following you or anything," Bruce muttered, pulling Jack close to him. "I've got no reason to complain."

Jack felt the moment passing, and didn't stop it on its way.

"We've got time for a movie or something before nightfall. Any ideas?"

"Whatever," Jack muttered absently, sprawling out on the couch. Lost in thought, he almost didn't notice Bruce sitting down next to him. Harleen probably didn't have the guts to be a supervillainess on her own, he decided. She'd just want to tag along with him. If she looked like she would turn out to be a problem, _then_ he'd bring her up, but not before. Right now, he was too busy enjoying the fact that they weren't arguing and the Batman had actually _apologized_. He couldn't bring himself to dredge the issue up. Let it rest in peace.

Bruce swiped a remote from the coffee table and began flipping channels, surfing past a couple of talk shows and a porn channel he hadn't known he had, before flicking to an old movie that seemed to consist mostly of garish colors and bad camera work. Instantly, Jack came alert.

"Leave this on," he demanded as Bruce made to change the channel again. "It's _Killer Klowns From Outer Space_." His friend stared at him.

"It's what?"_ Killer clowns? How much more Joker-ish can you get?_

"_Killer Klowns from Outer Space_," the clown next to him informed him again, eyes glued to the screen. "I like this movie. One of those, uh, god-_awful _eighties horror flicks, with the really bad special effects? The alien-clowns wrap people in cotton candy and then eat 'em."

"Gee, that sounds like so much fun," Batman's alter ego said sarcastically, "and not at all weird or gross…" He didn't change the channel though.

"It's all a matter of _perspective_, Bats," Jack sighed, sandy blond head falling back against Bruce's shoulder. "Give a man a fire, an' he's warm for the day. But set fire _to_ him, and, well, he's warm for the rest of his life!" Noticing Bruce's expression, he hastily added, "Kidding, kidding! Geez, Batsy," he groaned, settling himself more comfortably against his distinctly unamused lover, "where's your sense of humor?"

"I think I left it in my other armor," Bruce said wryly. Jack pulled a face at him and went back to watching the movie.

They had started watching more than halfway through the film, but the story wasn't particularly hard to follow. 'Not particularly hard' meaning that your average iguana could've watched it without requiring an explanation afterward. The Klowns, who looked like piles of half-dried papier-mâché that had been painted by a four-year-old with a neon acrylics set, were shooting the townsfolk with a gun that wrapped them in cotton candy, then taking them back to their circus tent spaceship to be eaten. The townsfolk were running, screaming, and trying to _not_ be eaten.

Bruce couldn't make up his mind whether this film was a parody of old horror movies or just an exceptionally _bad_ horror movie, but either way, it was definitely right up Joker's alley, meandering somewhere between amusing, ridiculous, and creepy. For a start, it featured killer balloon animals and popcorn ray guns, among other things. Jack watched it all happily, positively lapping up the hideously overdone makeup effects. He seemed to have a fondness for homicidal clowns; Alfred had told Bruce about Jack lending him _IT_. He supposed it made sense, given that Jack moonlighted as the Joker, but it was still odd to see his choice of an alter ego, something so far beyond human, carry over into the closest thing either of them had to normal life.

After a half hour or so, the movie ended with the brave townsfolk killing the three-storey Klown leader by stabbing it in its giant red nose, which was apparently its only weak point. Bruce wasn't sure whether to scoff or laugh.

"I'll hafta pick up a copy, ya need to see it from the beginning," Jack yawned, arching against the couch as he stretched. Bruce made a noncommittal grunting noise and flicked to a news station. The movie wasn't terrible, but he could easily have gone the rest of his life without seeing it completely.

The news report, for once, didn't contain anything that would necessitate Batman's immediate presence, for which Bruce was grateful. Just a few reports on troops overseas, a couple brief blurbs on run-of-the-mill muggings - Jack shifted slightly - and concluded by a nice, glossy slideshow of a new luxury hotel that was being opened downtown. The blonde news anchor finished her speech, hands folded prettily in her lap, and handed the limelight off to her colleague, a man with hair that appeared to have been styled with a tidal wave in mind. Bruce managed to wrench enough of his mind away from wondering whether the man's hair gel had gravity-defying properties to take in that the next few days were expected to be sunny. One less thing to worry about.

It was oddly pleasant, sitting here with Jack, doing something normal like watching TV. So much of their time together seemed to consist of fighting, in some shape or form, whether against each other or some mutual enemy. He was getting sick of it. He much preferred this. Jack's presence was a comfortable warmth at his right shoulder, and though neither of them spoke, the silence wasn't awkward, the way it was whenever he went out with a new date. It just meant that neither of them had anything they felt they had to say.

As though sensing his friend's thoughts, Jack looped a casual arm around Bruce, a silent sign that the quarrel was really over. Bruce returned the favor, subtly pulling his sometime arch-nemesis closer and savoring this rare moment of calm. He should probably be doing something other than just sitting here – he hadn't had a full workout in a few days, for one thing, and he really ought to work out how he was going to get rid of Beatrix without getting his head torn off - but he really couldn't bring himself to care.

At times, it seemed as though their double life would continue forever, never changing, an endless, infinite circle of Batman chasing Joker chasing police chasing Batman. Other times though, especially late at night, just before dawn, he felt that something was coming, that their bizarre balancing act must soon tip one way or another.

Jack shifted next to him, and Bruce's eyes were drawn to his face. He looked tired. Actually, he looked exhausted. The harsh scars at the edges of his mouth seemed to stand out more than usual, his angular features oddly hollowed. Bruce looked closer, half-fascinated in spite of himself. Was that dark taupe under his eyes from lack of sleep, or was it just leftover paint?

Jack noticed his scrutiny, and instantly, the haggard look vanished, leaving Bruce wondering whether he had just imagined it.

"Like what ya see?" he inquired, eyes glittering mischievously. With his cocky smile back in place, it was difficult to imagine him looking like he was anything other than on top of the world. He certainly _seemed_ fine. Bruce decided not to bring it up.

"Definitely," he muttered, inhaling his peculiar scent. Gasoline and burnt sugar, copper and gunpowder. Uniquely Joker, uniquely Jack. And oddly pleasant, for all its juxtaposed combinations. Bruce settled back against the sleek leather couch, the scent still playing across his nose.

The news report ended, switching to a basketball game – the Gotham Gators vs. the Metropolis Mets - which Bruce didn't feel the need to change. He was too occupied by the presence of the man next to him to really bother watching it, and continued to be so for the rest of the match. He already knew the Gators would lose anyway.

By the time that had ended, the sun was well on its way down, and Bruce reluctantly dragged himself off the couch to take to the rooftops as Batman. Jack, to his surprise, opted to stay behind.

Jack was more than happy to take a night off. Last night he and Brucey had been fighting, and being a supervillain had looked like the better option. Now it was reversed. The relationship stuff was mostly sorted out, and it was his life of crime that was teetering on the brink. After last night's frustrations and drama, he was in no hurry to go back to being Joker. Not when being Jack had quite abruptly improved so much.

"I'll, uh, I'll stay _here_," he repeated in response to Bruce's incredulous look. No need for him to look quite so stupefied; even a supervillain as amazing and kick-ass as himself needed some downtime. Crowds of fangirls throwing themselves at you would do that to a guy. Even if it _was_ only one exceptionally stubborn fangirl. For the moment, anyway.

In spite of the few peaceful hours they'd just had, or perhaps because of them, Bruce felt his hackles rise. He had come to trust Jack, to a certain extent, so he really couldn't have said why the thought of him, alone in the penthouse save for Alfred, made him so uneasy. It just did.

"You can stay here," he said finally, after a long moment's deliberation, "on a few conditions."

"…which are?"

"Leave Alfred alone."

"No problemo," Jack laughed, showing his discolored teeth, "I've seen 'im before without you actin' like a fussy chaperone. You'd be _so_ proud of me Bats, no knives at all…"

"Secondly," Bruce interrupted, stemming the flow of nonsensical words, "don't blow anything up."

"Well, now Bats, why would I wanna…"

"Or set it on fire."

"I already toldja…"

"_Thirdly_," he rumbled, one massive hand settling over Jack's mouth, "don't answer my phone. Actually, just leave my stuff alone in general."

"Gorrit," came the muffled reply. Bruce continued unabated.

"Fourth," he growled, unconsciously using the Batman voice, "stay on this floor. The _last_ thing I need is one of the other people in this building noticing a wanted terrorist wandering around, and calling the police or something."

Jack decided that Batboy had never actually realized he'd been hanging out here during Brucey's ill-fated date with Beatrix. He likewise decided not to bring it up. Batsy's lecture seemed to be winding down anyway; even he could only go on for so long without pausing for breath, though at least it was a change from the monosyllabic Neanderthal vocabulary Batman had seemed limited to. No need to set him off again. He would behave himself and follow Batbrat's silly rules. Unless he thought of something really, really fun to do.

"Any questions?" Bruce growled, finally removing his hand.

"Yeah…how _do_ they get those little pimento thingies into the olives?"

Bruce, alias Batman, groaned and stalked out the door, followed by the mocking laughter of his sometime arch nemesis. He wouldn't have to worry about the Joker, but he got a feeling it would be a rough night anyway.

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Being a supervillainess might be great fun, but for Harleen Quinzel, work that day had been torture to rival the Spanish Inquisition. Trying to focus on her therapy sessions and give her patients all the attention they needed while her head was still whirling with ideas for trapping Batman and joining her Puddin' had proved damn near impossible. In the end, it had been too much. She'd gotten snappish with one, not a particularly bad case, thank god, just a young and over-dramatic bipolar. But still. She felt awful about it, the poor boy had been close to crying and she'd had to end the therapy session early, which she hated to do. Her co-workers' response hadn't helped.

Harleen didn't especially like any of them at the best of times. She considered them petty and close-minded, and, all things being equal, would sooner have gotten a second round of braces than spent any time outside of work getting to know them. The feeling was mutual. But today's incident had given them all the ammunition they'd needed. Her first big case had escaped while under her care, they'd whispered when they _knew_ she could hear them, the Joker was gone, and now she'd frightened the kid. Was she really ready to be a full-fledged psychiatrist? Might not a few more years in a classroom be a good idea?

The only one who didn't say anything nasty was one of the higher-ranking staff members, a black woman named Leland. Her kind, gently helpful comments were somehow worse. Really, Leland tried to mother everyone, and it was so, goddamn, _annoying_. Her intentions might be good, but did she really need to go clucking like a hen through the break room, trying to referee the residents' verbal sparring matches? It was a useless effort, trying to get them to play nice. The interns and residents had their personal turf wars, vying for the few available positions and trying to discredit each other. The fully licensed psychiatrists bitched about each other over coffee. The administrators stayed out of it entirely. No level interfered with the others. That was just how it worked.

Harleen didn't even have a therapy session with the former Dr. Crane to look forward to. For all that he had done and how insane he was supposed to be, she got along very well with him. Apart her Mister Jay, he was her favorite patient, and she'd have liked to talk her situation over with him, asked if he had any good tips on setting yourself up as a supervillain. He might be legally out of his mind, but he gave very good advice. But no, their next session wasn't until Thursday. No relief there.

Only the thought of getting off duty, taking a nice, long, scalding shower, and slipping back into that deliciously tight jumpsuit and going out to play kept her from ditching work for the rest of the day. The snide comments were getting hard to take. Whenever she heard the other interns' whispers, she forced her mind towards her agenda for tonight, and the feeling she'd gotten from her brief moments as Harley Quinn. They didn't know, they had no idea, they had never felt the exhilarating anonymity of paint smearing your features and giving you a blank stage to perform on. They had never had that thrill of sensation coursing through their veins. They were jealous, were just imbeciles, little better than the criminally insane they managed. They weren't in her league.

Lunchtime came, then went. Harleen conducted her afternoon sessions and forced herself to keep her patience, watching the clock out of the corner of her eye. She was certain it was broken. There was no way time could truly be moving that slowly, was there? Hardly moving at all, the second hand creeping, inset-like, around the rim of the clockface. She'd better ask one of the maintenance crew to come in here, that couldn't possibly be right. _Surely_ more than thirty seconds had passed since she's last checked?

Finally, the end of her shift arrived, the minute hand jerking into place with a scratch of plastic gears worn almost smooth. Before the second hand could move two jots on its next rotation, she had grabbed her coat and dashed out of her miniscule office. Slamming the cheap fake-wood door behind her, her heart was lighter than it had been since her arrival that morning. She couldn't resist turning a cartwheel in the parking lot.

Leland watched Quinzel leave, her eyes concerned. She knew Harleen had gotten too close to the Joker, and wasn't ready to handle a case of that magnitude, no matter what everyone else thought. She also knew that Harleen didn't especially like her or anyone else, and it saddened her. Quinzel had the potential to be a truly great psychiatrist, but she was so alone, forced to be by the other interns as much as by her own choice. She wished Harleen would give her a chance to get to know her, and give herself a chance to connect with people other than her cases. She was too intense; she had to allow herself some time for something other than work. Down that path lay madness. Spend too much time around the abyss, and eventually you'll fall in, or get pushed, or jump. She didn't want that to happen to Harleen.

What she didn't know, and would not find out for some time to come, was that it was already too late. The star pupil had gone through the looking-glass, into the crazy world that lay beyond. And Harleen, already busy laying out her costume, would have had it no other way.

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Sanity calms, but madness is more interesting.

~John Russell

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_**A/N:**__ 'Killer Klowns From Outer Space' is a real movie. Being terrified of clowns, I've never seen it all the way through, so my descriptions are based on the parts I have seen and the ever-wonderful Wikipedia and IMDb._

_Jack's line on pimentos and Dr. Leland are both stolen from the Batman comics._


	23. Even Bats Have Bad Nights

_**A/N:**__ All right, I'm back, though exams are imminent, which means almost all my time will be spent trying to make the facts I actually need to know stick as well as the plotlines I dream up do. Kind of depressed at the moment. One of the biology classes is practicing dissection with cats, and while I personally don't have to cut open a preserved feline, I have to deal with their badly-cleaned mess every time I need to use the lab, and it never fails to get to me. Kitties are for cuddling, not cutting up. 'Nuff whining though. Enjoy this chapter._

_And, here…we…go!_

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Let's just say that if complete and utter chaos were lightning, then he'd be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armor and shouting "All Gods are bastards!"

~Terry Pratchett

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It began when Batman had finally given up trying to trace the latest string of mob fronts. He'd had no more luck tonight than any of the nights before – namely, none whatsoever – and had wasted almost all of the precious hours of darkness chasing a false lead. It irritated him, the feeling of futility that had plagued him since the night of Dent's death rising to the surface again, as though he was trying to carry a river up a mountain in a sieve. He was only one person, trying to save a city of millions. He couldn't be everywhere at once, couldn't protect everyone all the time, and sometimes, he hated himself for it. Especially now, when he'd allowed so many of the precious few hours when he could actually make a difference to slip down the drain, with nothing to show for his efforts. With any luck he could at least spend his final few hours of nighttime anonymity doing what he should have been doing all along: patrolling.

That didn't yield much either though. A few snatch-and-grabs and a carjacking, in a town that usually ran rampant with crime. Anyone else would have decided that the city was in good order and called it a job well done, but Batman felt every new crime-free street he ventured down push him closer to the edge, a warning instead of a reassurance. This just didn't _happen_, to Gotham or to him. He just didn't get easy nights. If things were going smoothly, it was only because something big and nasty and potentially fatal was standing right behind him, waiting until he relaxed for the chance to rip his head off.

It was almost two a.m. when he went past Robinson Park, on a quick loop towards the border of the Narrows to see if he could find any crime _there._ If that failed to turn anything up, he was just going to go home and wait for the hammer to fall from the comfort of his own living room.

He never made it to the bridge.

Batman didn't mean to stop. He didn't think the zoo would be somewhere he should check, especially in the wee hours of the morning, when by all rights it should be deserted, the animals asleep and dreaming strange, predatory dreams. That was how it should have been. But for some reason, there was a small crowd, about twenty or so, all standing around the gates and staring at something.

Whatever it was, it was agitating the animals. Even from his perch across the park, he could see the smoky golden leopard stalking the length of its cage, tail lashing angrily, and a small tribe of monkeys throwing themselves at the mesh surrounding their enclosure.

In Gotham, crowds were rarely a good thing, and even more rarely if they were somewhere unusual – say, outside the zoo at one thirty in the morning. He had to investigate. There was simply no other choice.

Careful not to be seen, he made a wide loop around the gathering, keeping to the shadows, trying to circle around behind them. He couldn't get a good look at what they were all staring at, only a few glimpses of red, too bright to be blood, thank god. Whatever it was, it was tucked back from the gate, so that first the crowd blocked his view, then the squat, faux-marble zoo buildings. The only way he could find out what it was would be to climb onto the roof of the African Mammal house, almost directly above the whatever-it-was.

There was a tense moment when he thought that someone might have glimpsed him as he was shimmying over the fence, but it passed without incident, and he dropped into the gloom at its base with a silent sigh of relief. From there it was easy enough to slink through the thickest part of the shadows and up the narrow iron fire escape ladder, giving his silent and ironic thanks to his old teacher for the gift of ninjutsu skills. If only Ra's could see the uses he'd been putting them to lately.

His body flush against the cold concrete, he began creeping forward, one painfully slow inch at a time. As he crept closer, he could begin to pick out words. So they were listening to a speaker. Who made speeches in the middle of the night in a locked zoo?

Finally he reached the edge of the building, and after pausing for a moment, tucked himself into the relative safety of the shadows cast by an old and ugly plaster gargoyle. Once he was sure he hadn't been spotted, he peered cautiously out from behind a crumbling wing. Time to spot his quarry. Scanning the inexplicable crowd, though, produced more questions than answers.

The various people were all clutching cameras and were puffy-eyed with fatigue, but they didn't have the predatory air of reporters tracking an even mildly interesting story. Jet-lagged tourists, maybe…? The local insomniacs? Who else could he think of that would wander around a deserted park in the middle of the night?

Unable to puzzle out the presence of the onlookers, the caped – and rather cramped – crusader turned his attention almost directly downward, to the object of their interest.

It appeared female, although he'd never been one to put much faith in appearances. However, the voice also indicated it to be female, and a voice was considerably less easy to fake. It also appeared to have been dunked alternately in tubs of cherry juice and soot, and emitted strange tinkling, clinking noises with every over-enthusiastic motion. The noises coming from its mouth might possibly have been a speech, but punctuated as they were by giggles and exclamations, that was by no means certain. Batman had no idea what to make of it.

Craning his neck two degrees to the right produced both a highly uncomfortable angle and a better view. From here he could conclude that it was definitely female, was dressed in an inexpertly-dyed bodysuit and hood, and was also – his heart sank like the _Titanic_ – talking about him.

"This Batman flies around like he owns the place," she was shouting, to the unenthusiastic interest of her audience. "He causes just as much damage as the so-called villains! Maybe even more! Innocent people get hurt, and he doesn't answer for his crimes! Do we have to stand for it? I say no!"

Batman had to wonder what exactly she was. One of the long-standing Bat-haters, suddenly sanctified by his status as a criminal? A rival vigilante or villain looking for her turn at bat? The family of someone who had supposedly died at his hands? He felt a sick squirm of guilt at that thought, but pushed it away. Whatever she was, he wished she would knock it off and go home. Apparently the crowd was beginning to feel the same way.

She seemed to realize she was losing her spectators.

"Boys and girls, you've been a great audience," she shouted, arms spread wide. The great audience paused, but didn't return to their spot by the gate. "A _great _audience. So, to thank you, I've got a treat for you. A…guest star, if you will. Tell me…what has two wings, two pointy ears, and a criminal record?"

The crowd suddenly started showing considerably more interest.

"Ladies and germs," she announced with a grand flourish, "I give you…the Bat Man!"

His heart fell like a grand piano onto the head of the unsuspecting cartoon character nineteen storeys below._ How did she know…?_ But that thought trailed off, driven out of his head by bigger problems – like the searing, magnesium-bright searchlight that someone had just switched on, throwing his caped and cowled form into sharp relief and completely destroying his impromptu hiding place. _Fuck._ The last thing he needed - or wanted - was a limelight and a crowd of curious witnesses.

Feeling like the biggest duck in a shooting gallery full of kids with BB guns, he darted out of that blaze and straight into another, every one of the spectators present snapping photos as fast as their chubby fingers could work the buttons, a constant chatter of electric clicks filling the air. Dazed and disoriented, sparks popping in eyes accustomed to dim alleys and pitch-black docklands, he stumbled away from the edge of the roof, retreating into the dark like an injured animal to lick its wounds. Dark was safe.

Once he was hidden in the corner by one of the vents, he paused for a moment to let his vision readjust. Tourist, he decided, still blinking the blaze out of his eyes, must be code for idiot.

Apparently the old adage was true though, and there was no rest to be had for the righteous. Or the wicked, depending on who you asked. He had barely begun to see the outlines of the thick cinderblocks around him when another summer-lightning flash lit the night, followed by a hellion choir of screams. Cursing, he threw himself off the edge of the roof and dropped heavily to the ground, squirming around the corner of the building to get a better view of whatever new horror lay in wait.

Imagine a cute little zoo scene on a clear, bright day. Change it to the middle of the night, well past witching hour, and scatter a few globs of flaming tar around. Hit the gift shop with a wrecking ball a couple of times. Add a refugee from a Vegas cabaret doing a victory dance, and a pack of shell-shocked and mildly singed civilians, being watched by a number of animals looking just a little too interested in the goings-on. You would then have a good idea of the scene that met Batman's eyes.

Well, he thought grimly, surveying the damage, it looked like he had his answer. She was the newest supervillain in town, and he had to deal with this problem before it turned out like the Joker fiasco. Taking on the entire mob would have been a carefree frolic through a sunny, kitten-infested field compared to _that_ nightmare.

Speaking of the newest addition to his blacklist, she looked positively gleeful at the destruction her bomb had wrought. She must really have been new to this; she looked like a little kid the first time they saw vinegar and baking soda mixed together. It hadn't been all that impressive an explosion either, thank god. No one was seriously injured. But she looked pleased enough.

"Come out, come out and play, Batman," she sang, doing a strange little shimmying dance. "Come out and play! Or do you wanna play hide and seek instead?"

He didn't answer, watching her with slitted eyes.

"If you wanna play hide and seek," she continued, turning a slow circle, "you should know I _always_ win!"

From where he was crouched on the hard-packed dirt, Batman rolled his eyes. _Please, could we stop with the clichéd lines?_

She got his full attention though when a knife appeared in her hand as though summoned there by magic.

He was embarrassed to admit it, but his first thought was, _where was she keeping that?_ In all fairness though, it _was_ a valid question. The spandex body suit didn't leave all that many blanks for the mind fill in, and there was _no_ way she had any pockets in that thing…

Then he realized what exactly he was thinking, and gave himself the mental equivalent of a bitch-slap. This was _not _the time. He was already dating one villain, which was bad enough, he did not need to be ogling another. She might be a girl, and a very pretty girl, from what he could see of her, but she was also a threat to his city, and needed to be dealt with as such. Starting now.

"Enough," he growled, stepping from the shadows. Instantly, her white-smeared face cracked into a wicked grin.

"Sooo, Batman, you're finally ready to fight?" she cheered. "Bring it!"

Batman stared at her with a most uncharacteristic expression of shock visible on what could be seen of his face. Did this girl _not_ realize that he was at least twice her size and body weight? Did she have any idea of how much training he'd had in hand-to-hand fights? She couldn't be serious – could she?

Apparently, she was, because a moment later she was bounding towards him, dagger in hand. He was ready for her. He knocked the knife out of her hand easily, and followed the motion through to bring his Kevlar-clad fists down on her skull, knocking her unconscious.

But then, for a single, crucial moment, he hesitated. He was Batman, vengeance and justice given form, but he was also Bruce Wayne. And as Bruce Wayne, it had been instilled in him all his life, by both his parents and Alfred, to be polite, and that part of being polite was not hitting girls, no exceptions, not even Rachel, not even when she hit him first. Even now, with a brand-new supervillain threatening his city, the old taboo from his childhood still rang through his head. _Don't hit girls._

That moment of hesitation cost him dear. The supervillainess, it seemed, had no compunction about hitting boys, because she came pinwheeling after him. He barely had time to react before she'd executed a neat handspring and kicked him solidly in the chest, the full weight of her body and every ounce of momentum from the cartwheels driving into the blow. It hit him like a wrecking ball, all blunt force and kinetic energy, and, for the first time in months, Bruce found himself winded. He'd forgotten how god-awful it felt, as though your lungs were collapsing inside you, crumpling like wet kelp.

She didn't give him time to recover, but slammed two petite granite-chip fists into his chin, giggling at the effect they had. She'd managed to hit the pressure points spot-on. Batman stumbled back a few steps, still reeling, and she took the opportunity to dart out of sight past the African Mammal House. Recovering his breath in fits and gasps, Batman dashed after her, cape whipping around the corner of the building.

She was standing there, in plain view. Just standing there, not making any attempt to escape, looking fiendishly pleased and holding, of all things, a rubber chicken. Batman's dark eyes flicked to each side, but he couldn't see any obvious signs of booby traps.

"Put your hands on your head," the caped crusader rasped, hand gliding to his utility belt, "and don't move a muscle."

"Ooh, what'll you do to me?" the girl giggled, lacing her fingers above her head and arching her body like a dancer.

He tried not to look. He really did. But he'd been fighting with Jack, and it had been a few days, and despite his best efforts, his eyes were drawn to somewhere around three-quarters of the way up her body. _Talk about thy cup overfloweth…_

"Hands on your head," he growled again, doing his best to ignore how tightly the thick suit of body armor seemed to cling to him. Must have been longer than he thought since he'd last worked out, must have put on a few pounds…

"Hmm," she pouted, putting one black-gloved finger to ruby painted lips, "_no_."

It was about then that the rubber chicken exploded.

This explosion was even less impressive than the one before it, but it did its job, knocking Batman off his feet and knocking the doors to a few of the cages off their hinges. Which would have been fine, had it been monkeys or giraffes that the cages contained. But no, that would be too easy, Bruce thought bitterly, picking himself up off the ground. And god forbid that anything in his life should be easy. So naturally, the animals to escape were the massive, man-eating predators. He could already see the gates to the lion and leopard enclosures swinging freely in the breeze. Lovely. This night just kept improving. If he was lucky, an anvil would fall on him next.

_Cah-chunk._

_Looks like I spoke too soon,_ he thought resentfully, shaking his head to clear it. Not an anvil, but a piece of concrete about the size and weight of one.

While he'd been busy getting beaned by building materials, the newest supervillain had vanished again. He couldn't let her get away, couldn't let this escalate into the same kind of circus Joker's appearance had caused. His poor, abused city wouldn't survive another assault of that magnitude, and he wasn't sure his dignity would either. A hollow ringing noise still vibrating between his ears, he stumbled off in search of her, keeping a cautious eye open for any wandering predators in search of a midnight snack.

Upon finding her though, his sense of irritation, not helped by his repeated physical contact with large, very solid objects, increased tenfold. She was not panicked. She was not attempting to set booby traps. She wasn't even mildly concerned. Instead, she was playing with the goddamn hyenas! The same hyenas Jack had been so enchanted with… The thought rankled him, and he stepped closer, hooded and menacing, forgetting his misgivings about fighting with girls. She didn't even notice, too engrossed in two particular hyenas.

"Ooh, you _are_ good boys," the carmine-suited psychopath cooed, rubbing their bellies. Both scavengers immediately rolled over, evidently enjoying the attention, and she squealed with abject delight. "I think you're coming with me, yes you are!"

"And _you're_ coming with _me_," he snarled, black-clad hands settling heavily on her shoulders.

Her response was very gratifying after being completely forgotten only a few minutes earlier. His sadistic pleasure lasted only a moment though – the exact length of time it took her to scream, "Sic 'im!"

Instantly, both hyenas had scrambled up and were lunging at his throat, snarling and driving him back until he felt his shoulder hit a wall. _Shit._ The hyenas kept coming, chisel-sharp fangs showing. He reached frantically for a Batarang, but the hyena on the right snapped at him, jaws meeting less than an inch from his wrist. He slowly withdrew his hand. Smart hyenas.

"That's enough, boys," the new girl called finally, when it seemed as though the snapping scavengers were about to rip him a new set of vocal cords. "That's enough. I think he gets the message, hmm? 'Cause next time, I won't call 'em off!"

Batman glared at her, eyes burning in his cowl. This wasn't over, not by a long shot.

He could hear, muted by the distance but drawing steadily closer, the broken-hearted mourner's wail of sirens. He had to get out of here before the police arrived. The hyenas, however, seemed to have no intention of allowing him to escape. He might be able to take one out, he thought, scowling at the growling, yipping beasts, but the other one would be on him before he'd gone two strides. And unfortunately, the hyena had some of the strongest jaws, pound per pound, in the animal kingdom.

She'd won this round far, far too easily. Evidently he'd made mistakes. Fighting his first supervillainess would have its own set of challenges, and he'd need to be prepared next time. Next time, it wouldn't be so one-sided a challenge.

Provided of course that he managed to survive this, he reminded himself, glaring daggers at her as she clicked her fingers at the hyenas. They obeyed her as though it was their sole purpose in life. Their keepers must have taught them to follow commands, he decided, calculating his odds of making it out before another uncaged predator spotted him, but when had the hyenas been trained to attack people wearing a cape and mask?

The two spotted beasts fell in beside her, flanking her, one snapping at him one last time as though warning him not to try anything. "An' remember," she called over her shoulder, hands trailing through the coarse fur of the hyena on each side, "I'm Harley Quinn, and this is my city now! An' don't you forget it!"

_Great, Harley Quinn,_ he thought sarcastically, his back pressed flush against the wall. Now he knew who was responsible for his imminent mauling. Why did that name sound so familiar…?

A low, rock-rumble growl snapped his mind back to the present as though it was on an elastic leash. The same panther that he'd admired so much only a few days ago had slunk out of the scrubby bushes and was looking at him as though he was a chewtoy.

"Nice kitty," he muttered, fingering a couple of Batarangs and wondering whether making like a rabbit and running would help the situation, or just make him look like fast food. "Niiiice kitty."

The panther advanced, one cloud-light pawstep at a time, its eyes gleaming hungrily. It did _not_ look as though it was very interested in being a nice kitty.

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It was only an hour or so past dawn when Lucius Fox let himself into Wayne Tower. Instead of heading to his top-floor corner office to get started on the day's paperwork though, he went through a carefully nondescript side door and into the hidden labs, where he was constantly developing new Bat gear. He was a good CEO - the best Wayne Enterprises had ever had - and he was grateful to Bruce for giving him the job, but some days, he missed the thrill of easing the bugs out of a still-fragile system, and the simple pleasure of working with his hands. High-end memos and meetings just couldn't make up for that.

"I thought you said this suit would be fine against cats."

Bruce's voice issued from behind him, heavy with gallows humor.

"Depends on the cat," Lucius said immediately, turning around to get a look at the suit of armor in question.

It looked as though it and its wearer had been the catnip mouse for one _big_ pussycat. Which, as it happened, was almost exactly the case.

"Was that a cat, or a werewolf?" he asked, his tone droll. "If it was a Siamese that did that to you, I want to know where it came from. I could use one as a guard dog."

"You might have a hard time with this particular guard dog," Bruce groaned, allowing Fox to examine the damage.

His scientist's hands careful and precise, Lucius gently prized the armor plates from the young man's tattered body. This suit was shredded beyond repair, but at least it had saved its wearer from the worst of the damage. Not that Mr. Wayne was by any means unscathed. Already he could see several angry-looking red slashes across one shoulder blade where the cat had found a chink in the Kevlar shell, and a neat set of puncture marks on his right bicep that looked hideously like teeth. Fox was no doctor, but from the injuries he could already see, Batman wouldn't be flying for at least a few nights. He'd have to ask Alfred to make sure Bruce got some rest, otherwise the kid would kill himself trying to work around the wounds.

"If this is how you look, I'd hate to see the other guy," Lucius told him after a few minutes. Bruce chuckled tiredly, head falling back against the chair and his hand resting lightly on the mangled piece of armor he'd been about to unbuckle.

"The 'other guy' is sedated and locked back in his cage, thank god," he chuckled, though it sounded forced. "The cat's under control, it's the rest of the animals I'm worried about." Namely, a certain pair of hyenas, and their new mistress.

Fox nodded his understanding, and a few more minutes passed in busy silence.

"Our stock in the technology sector rose again," Lucius informed his young employer offhandedly, still lifting away the damaged armor from his shoulders. "Right now we're second only to Stark Industries."

"Good," Bruce yawned, clearly distracted.

"We've got a problem too," Fox told him, checking the joint between two pieces of Kevlar. "Max Shreck is asking around about you and someone you were seen talking to at a party. Trying to claim it's some kind of industrial espionage."

Bruce had the plummeting feel that he knew exactly which party and what person Shreck was referring to.

Noticing his friend's look of something bordering overwhelmed despair, Lucius offered, "I'll keep an eye on it, and if he starts to get too interested, I'll head him off." If the shape Bruce was in now was any indication, this new worry was the absolute last thing he needed right now.

"Thanks," Bruce yawned, handing him the last piece of shredded body armor. "That would be…amazing, actually. Thank you." Dressed only in the clinging bodysuit he wore under his armor, he slipped out of the lab and up to his seldom-used, enormous corner office to retrieve the clothes he kept there for such an occasion as this. Fox gave him a few minutes to make sure he arrived without incident, then buzzed Reese with a request to come up to his office when he got the chance.

The span of time it took to walk to his office was barely long enough for him wonder whether he had time to get a cup of coffee, but Reese was already waiting for him, his round, flushed face telling Fox that he'd run in order to get there as soon as possible. Lucius unlocked the door, his face carefully blank. Looked like the caffeine infusion would have to wait.

After the Joker's threat on his life, Coleman Reese had shamefacedly requested to be allowed to stay on at Wayne Enterprises, and had insisted on signing a nondisclosure agreement, even though neither Bruce nor Lucius had stipulated such a condition. He was much more subdued than before, and had never really gotten over the fact that the Batman had been willing to save him even though he'd been poised to destroy everything. If Bruce had told him to jump, he would have started doing jumping jacks without even bothering to ask how high. Whenever he saw Bruce Wayne now, he tended to go pink or drop whatever he was carrying. Bruce found it kind of disconcerting, and took to avoiding the floor where Reese worked.

The door clicked open, and Fox swept serenely in, settling himself behind his broad desk. Reese trailed after him, his suit rumpled and a manila folder clutched to his chest.

"Sir, I…" he began, but Lucius held up a hand to cut him off.

"Mr. Reese, I need you to do a favor for me," Fox told him, calm brown eyes behind their spectacles surveying Reese's nervous blue ones. Reese nodded, looking like nothing so much as a rather ugly bobblehead. Fox went on. "I'd like you to look up everything we've got on industrial espionage, and check when it can be legally applied and when it's illegal. If you could have that done soon, I'd be grateful," he told Reese courteously. The lawyer nodded again, as though his head was mounted on a spring, then scurried out.

Lucius waited until he'd gone, then pulled his cell phone out his blazer pocket and called R&D. With any luck that intern, Stibbons, had finished testing the new Kevlar weave. Bruce seemed to go through Batsuits at an alarming rate.

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A man can't be too careful in the choice of his enemies.

~ Oscar Wilde

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_**A/N:**__ Magnesium metal burns brighter than the sun, and looking at it for too long will cause permanent blindness._

_Only one man has ever been known to fight a big cat without the use of any kind of weapon and win, and that was a specimen collector from the Field Museum, Dr. Ackerly, I think. A leopard attacked him, and he killed it, but he was severely injured in the process. I'm giving Bruce better odds since he's got armor, flash powders, and Batarangs, but I think a panther kept in captivity would be a fairly unafraid of humans, and I think he would try to avoid killing it if he could._

_Love it? Hate it? Praise is appreciated, constructive criticism is adored, flames and their originators are publicly ridiculed!_


	24. Madness Or Brilliance

_**A/N:**__ To any who feel like taking Edward Nigma's place, riddle me this: how is it that classes are over, but my to-do list is longer than ever? Because I just don't get it._

_On a happier note, thank you thank you thank you to everyone who's reviewed. Getting feedback not only helps improve my writing, but makes me feel a little less as though I'm writing this and dropping it down a hole. So hearing that people are actually reading this and enjoying it is great. Thanks._

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If you had to identify, in one word, the reason why the human race has not achieved, and never will achieve, its full potential, that word would be 'meetings.'

~ Dave Barry

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Bruce would gladly have skipped the board meeting that morning, but unfortunately he'd already been AWOL for the previous four, and even _he_ had to put in an appearance at the office every now and then. As it was though, he was far too tired to actually be much use, so he just dozed in his leather swivel chair, trying not to notice the dirty looks the rest of the board kept shooting him. It did work, for a while. They were far too used to the spoiled brat of an owner to actually bother doing anything, and after getting shot at, Maced in the face, stabbed, and repeatedly clubbed over the head, a few glares didn't do much to faze Bruce, who catnapped quite happily through the first part of the conference. Then, during a coffee break about an hour in, he heard Fox's distinct, resonant voice assuring someone, "I'll talk to him."

That _did_ alarm him. Forcing his gummed eyes open, he squinted down the length of the table to see Lucius striding towards him, following by the gloating half-glances of several board members. Fox looked unusually stoic.

"Something wrong, Mr. Fox?" Bruce asked, trying not to give in to his impulse to yawn until his face split. Fox was one of those people, like Alfred, who could always make him feel like a misbehaving child, no matter the actual circumstances.

"Yes, Mr. Wayne, there is something wrong," his CEO said levelly, then lowered his voice. "But it's not what you think. The board _is _upset, but since when has that ever bothered you?" Bruce chuckled weakly. "No, the problem is your choice of wardrobe. I don't remember adding bloodstains to the dress code."

Bruce glanced down at himself, then bit back a curse. Sure enough, a few drops of blood had begun to blister their way through his makeshift bandage, standing out in stark contrast against his white silk shirt. He hurriedly pulled his blazer shut.

"I'm the only one who's noticed," Lucius told him in a low voice, observing his consternation. "But you'd best get home before someone asks why the company owner looks like he did ten rounds with a wolverine."

Beginning to see where this was going, Bruce asked him, a little louder than he might have normally, "So I'm being kicked out?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so, Mr. Wayne," Lucius answered him in the same conversational tone. Bruce could see the board members peering from around the doorjamb, a look of smug satisfaction showing on a few faces. "I'm afraid the other members find you…distracting."

"Do I snore that loudly?" Bruce asked drolly. Lucius chuckled, then lowered his voice again.

"This way," he admitted, dark eyes crinkling into a slight smile, "it looks like I'm coming down on you for giving the company a bad image, and you've got an excuse to go home and get some rest."

Bruce was struck again by the wisdom his father had had in hiring Lucius Fox. Really, the man was a genius, and not just with technology; Lucius Fox had doctorates in chemistry, engineering, physics, even some experience with experimental medicines. But that wasn't what Bruce had had in mind. No, amazing as he was with everything relating to his beloved sciences, Bruce thought, briefly nodding his thanks before slinking out of the meeting room, attempting to look chastised, Fox's true genius showed most clearly in his amazing ability to keep peace and get things done. Whatever Wayne Enterprises was paying the inventor, diplomat, and engineer, it wasn't nearly enough.

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_Several hours earlier…_

After Batboy's little rant about being good and not blowing anyone up, Jack fully intended to cause some chaos, simply to demonstrate that no one could tell the Joker what to do or not do. A few pipe bombs, some Glasgow grins scrawled on the elevator walls, maybe a couple strategically placed stink bombs…he had it all thought out. Or he _did,_ anyway. It wasn't too long after Brucey donned the cowl and disappeared in a swirl of black Kevlar that he began to feel as though someone had whacked him over the head with a cement-filled pillowcase, and Bruce Wayne's enormous, pristine bed started to look extraordinarily inviting, like a fireworks store, a knife maker's, and a preschool full of small children all rolled into one.

It wasn't like he was doing it because Bruce told him to stay put, he assured himself, stripping down to his underwear and crawling under the deliciously thick blankets. He could have fun whenever he wanted, and nothing Bats said could change that. No, he was doing this because he was _tired_, and he was tired because he'd been chasing after that damn little psych sap all night, and that was that. Besides, it wasn't like he had to stay asleep all night. He could catch a few hours' nap, then get up in the wee hours of the morning and leave a few threatening messages for the building's other residents to find, or something like that…

_Yeah, that sounds good_, he decided, snuggling into the thick mattress. Mmmm, it was comfy. Batbrat had good taste, at least as far as bedclothes went. When it came to women, artwork, and threatening-looking costumes, Jack could have given him a few pointers.

Later though. Right now his brain felt as though a midget in lead shoes was bouncing a pogo stick around his skull, and his limbs seemed to be stuck to the sheets with that gloopy, nasty road repair tar. He could treat Batbrain to a lecture once he'd had some sleep. A nice, long lecture, possibly from across a knife-laden table or a bomb detonator, on why it was a bad idea to give a Joker orders and why Francis Bacon paintings were better than Renoirs and why bats really weren't all that scary and why the heavy down comforter felt so good…

Within minutes, the most wanted criminal in the state was fast asleep in the bed of the city's most eligible bachelor, dreaming about whatever it was that occupied the mind of your average homicidal and anarchistic clown.

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"Where is he?" Harley fretted, twisting her jester's cap in her hands. Three guesses as to who she was talking about. "If the Bat's hurt him…"

"I'm sure he's fine, Miss Quinn," Lewis assured her from his spot near the door. They were waiting in the Joker's current hideout, Lewis on a battered folding chair and Harleen perched on the table, for the Clown Prince to return. He really ought to have gotten back by now, it was past five a.m.…

When Harley Quinn didn't look convinced, Lewis went on, "He'll be OK, Joker's tough, he's gone up against the Batman before. He's probably out looking for our next target right now, and when he hears what you did with the zoo, he'll want you to come." Lewis might have been henchman to one of the most dangerous terrorists in the world (a terrorist who was currently curled up and snoring lightly), but he had a strange sense of compassion not at all suited to the type of work he did.

"I guess," Harley sighed morosely, her head dropping into her hands. She knew her Puddin' could take care of himself, but all the same, she wished she knew where he was. She'd so been looking forward to telling him all about her first night as a supervillainess.

"He's fine," Lewis told her again, resting one brown hand on her spandex-coated shoulder. "But _you're _not going to be if you keep worrying like this."

For the first time since arriving, Harley cracked a small smile. "Guess you're right," she muttered, letting the bifurcated hat drop into her lap. "I've gotta go to work tomorra anyway, I should get goin'…"

"I'll let the boss know you were here," Lewis assured her. She gave him a small but sincere smile, clapped the now wrinkled cap back onto her head, and slipped out the side door. Awesome as being a supervillainess might be, she thought, stifling a yawn, her nighttime antics were playing hell with her sleep schedule, and she was eager to take the frustration out on something as soon as possible. Preferably something alive, and something that she already had a grudge against. Something with pointy ears and one hell of a punch. God help Batman, whoever he was, the poor bastard.

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"Long night?" Jonathan asked as soon as the overgrown gorillas who passed as guards at Arkham had trundled out the door to the therapy room. Dr. Quinzel nodded, rubbing at an eye to which the faint haze of makeup still clung.

"Yeah, how couldja tell?" she yawned, tugging at the straps on his straitjacket.

Crane was technically supposed to be restrained at all times whenever he was outside of his cell, and was usually restrained while inside of it for a good portion of the time as well, but Harleen didn't see the point. For the past month or so of his therapy sessions, she'd been removing the straitjacket as soon as the guards were out of sight. At first it was a device to gain his trust, but it quickly became a habit. Now it was just something she did automatically. She hadn't bothered to take notes on him for a few weeks now too, she noticed, shuffling her blank clipboard to the side. Anyway, they seemed to make more progress during the informal sessions. Whatever worked. It was all in the name of therapy.

The lanky, curly-haired professor stretched luxuriously, savoring the rare ability to move without the confining cotton fabric holding him in place. They'd gotten new straitjackets after the last six breakouts, and he was certain they'd been designed by the demons and devilspawn his wretched great-grandmother had taken such delight in warning him about as a child. Surely he hadn't approved the use of such things when he was in charge of Arkham? But now he was free of it, for a few minutes at least. These therapy sessions could not come quickly enough. His hallucinogen-blue eyes closed in pleasure, like a cat's, as he stretched far enough back that the cracking of his back was audible across the room. Now those same blue eyes settled on his therapist, perched dejectedly on top of the desk that, along with the chair behind it and the considerably less comfortable one he was usually strapped to, made the sum of the small room's furnishings.

"I can tell," he said sternly, adjusting his wire-framed glasses, "because you are wearing the same skirt you wore yesterday, Harleen, the light blue one that you had to let out at the hem. It's still wrinkled. I'm guessing you took it off yesterday, put it in a pile of dirty laundry, and then put it on this morning because it was the first thing that came to hand and you didn't have time to look for a clean one after being out all night. Am I right?" She nodded miserably.

"Right as always, Jonathan," she groaned. "It _was_ a long night. And all for nothin'," she added moodily, twirling a pencil.

"Tell me about it," her patient ordered, settling more comfortably into his plain steel chair.

So Harleen talked, telling the ex mad scientist all about her first night as a Gotham supervillainess. Jonathan listened patiently to her long, rambling descriptions of setting the bombs (without getting blown up), luring in the Batman, the brief, thrilling fight, the escape with her new pets, and her disappointment in the Joker's absence.

"…an' Mistah Jay's gone missin', and I jus' don't know what to do now," she finished, jabbing her blunted pencil moodily at the desk. "Now the Bat knows I'm here, he'll be more cautious, I can't jus' set up a coupla bombs again." Getting the materials for the first few had been hard enough anyway. "Whatever I do tonight, it'll have to be somethin' else."

Not to mention the hyenas asleep in her apartment…how exactly was she going to feed them? Her salary was barely enough to keep herself in sandwiches, coffee, and Ramen.

Much as she hated to put off her quest to antagonize Batman, her next venture had better be a low-key but profitable burglary of some kind, so she could at least buy some dog food or meat or Cheetos or whatever it was hyenas ate.

"Hey Doctor Crane?" she asked finally, staring into space.

"Hmm?"

"What d'ya know 'bout robbery?"

"Not much," he admitted after a small pause. "I mostly stuck with my research." Which tended to involve selling highly dangerous, potentially lethal hallucinogens to druggies looking for a fix. "I never tried robbing anywhere. It can't be that difficult though, ordinary people do it all the time. Are you talking cat burglary, or a holdup?"

"Holdup," Dr. Quinzel told him after a moment's thought. "If I can't get at the Bat, I can at least get in the news. I need to get my name out there. Not much good bein' a supervillainess if no one knows who ya are."

"You'd better start with something small," he told her seriously, "a convenience store or something, you can't go getting over your head."

"Yeah, but how can I pull that off all by my lonesome?" she asked moodily. "Even somethin' small. It's not like I can cover all the exits by myself."

"You might try getting some henchmen or accomplices," Jonathan suggested, face wrinkled into a frown as he thought. "I never really bothered with them myself, but I'm sure they can't be hard to find. Maybe some of Joker's could help you while he's not around? They'll know what they're doing, he robs banks for _fun_." _What a weirdo_. "If nothing else though," he offered, "you could always kidnap a few of the schizophrenic cases, they're usually reliable enough…"

For a moment his therapist stared at the ex mad scientist, dumbfounded. Then her pretty face split into a wide grin, and before he knew what was happening, slim, slight Crane had Harleen's arms wrapped around his middle tight enough to make breathing difficult.

"Thank you, thank you!" she squealed, punctuating each phrase with a sharp squeeze. "It's perfect! Lewis'll prob'ly help, an' even if he doesn't, he'll know where I can find some henches…oh Jonathan, you're the best!"

"I try," he coughed embarrassedly, patting the top of her head with an awkwardness usually reserved for family reunions. His lips were curved into a smile though, and he didn't try to push her away, as he would have if it had been anyone else clamped around his midsection. Funny, when he was employed at Arkham, he remembered the newest batch of interns as whiny brats straight from the nursery. He'd never liked any of his co-workers, and being on the receiving end of their so-called treatment had only intensified his hatred. Harleen, however, seemed much more tolerable now than she had been as his underling. Perhaps it was her recent commitment to getting rid of Batman.

They spent the rest of the hour discussing Jonathan's career as a masked villain and brainstorming for Harley Quinn's. Dr. Crane's time as the Scarecrow may have been brief, but he was intelligent enough to realize what he'd done wrong, and fond enough of his therapist to give her the benefit of his experience.

"…and if you _do_ use Arkham patients as henchmen, make sure you don't pick the ones who've been diagnosed with psychosis," Crane warned her as she began helping him back into the straitjacket. Anticipating her next question, he sheepishly added, "Don't ask how I know that." Harleen nodded silently, loosely cinching the jacket's shoulder straps.

"Till next time, Doc Crane," she said cheerfully as the guards came to escort him back to his cell. One of them sneered at her use of the honorific, but didn't say anything until they had hustled their lanky charge down the over-sterilized hall.

"Huh, doctor," he snorted finally. Crane eyed him warily. The man looked like nothing so much as an enormous blond warthog that had been stuffed into a uniform. Common sense said that the best thing to do would be to keep his mouth glued shut. Common sense and Dr. Crane had had a falling out and were strangers to each other.

"That is my title," he said evenly, trying not to stumble as the other guard hurried him along. It was difficult without his arms free. Whoever had invented straitjackets needed to have their limbs pecked off in classic _The Birds_ style, see how _they_ liked not being able to move. "I earned my license to practice medicine, thus, I'm a doctor, and you may address me as such." The guard on his right made a strange choking noise that vaguely resembled laughter.

"Your license, _doc_," he sneered, "was revoked when they found out the director of the loony bin was even loonier than the loonies!" Crane regarded him coolly.

"Be that as it may," he said regally, wishing he was taller so he could stare down his nose, "I _am_ a fully certified doctor, something I doubt you can ever claim to be."

The guard he'd addressed snarled and shoved him into the whitewashed wall. A moment later, Jonathan was struck, quite literally, by the difference between the security staff and the psychiatrists.

The therapists at Arkham were, after all, there to _help_ patients, to try and heal the freaks so they could rejoin society as functioning citizens, a benefit to the community.

Possibly a few of the shrinks even believed that.

But the guards…they were a different matter.

The inmates and the guards existed in a state of constant warfare. Jonathan had known of this while he was the director of Arkham, in the same way he knew the Hutu and Tutsi tribes in Africa were at war. It didn't really matter, so long as it didn't interfere with his research, and it hadn't. Now that he was on the other end of the psych evaluation though…

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Harleen saw her charge and his escort safely out the door, then sat down in the squeaky swivel chair behind the desk. A few minutes later, she caught the faint edge of shouting from down the hall Crane had been led through. It was impossible to tell whose voice it was, though she kept an ear cocked just in case as she shuffled her papers, looking for the folder on her next patient. If only all her cases could be as much fun as Jonathan.

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"No, I promise, I won't tell the pyramid mice."

Dr. Quinzel spoke soothingly, as she might to a spooked horse or a delicate psych case. Which, as it happens, was exactly what she was dealing with. A patient, that is, not a frightened equine.

"They won't ever know," she went on, her voice low and earnest. "How could they find out? I certainly won't tell them. Will you?"

"N-no…" Marvin whimpered, hunching over as much as the restrictive cloth allowed him to. "But they'll know anyway! They al-always know."

Harleen bit back a sigh. Marvin Gek had come back from a vacation in Egypt convinced that he was being followed by a bunch of mice that had eaten the food offerings left in the royal tombs and become immortal and ridiculously intelligent and possibly telepathic. Which wasn't such a problem in itself. Plenty of people had weird convictions and still managed to function in normal society. The problem was that the mice were trying to force Marvin, the only person who could see them, to help them in their quest to bring the world to a new age of enlightenment, and they did this by manipulating the people around him. Who he then attacked in an attempt to get the intellectual rodents to leave him alone.

So it was in everyone's best interest that the mice be gotten rid of. But she was having some problems convincing him that the academic pests were all in his head, or even getting him to talk about them. Apparently if he gave away too many of their plans, the curse of the pharaoh would come down on him, never mind that it was intended for tomb robbers, not tourists being stalked by supermice.

"They always know," he muttered again, eyes darting around the tiny room as the sallow skin of his face flexed and warped. "They s-s-see _everything_. They know the s-secrets of the universe. Nothing's ever safe f-from them."

_This is like __**Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy**__ on crack,_ she thought idly, wondering how exactly you were supposed to tell someone that their tyrannical mice didn't exist. And even if she did, what if he switched to mutant rats, or gerbils? Were there even mice in Egypt anyway? She had a vague idea that there might be hamsters.

"I think we'll leave it here for today," she sighed finally, laying the pencil on the desk with a soft _chink_. "Just wait here while I get things ready, OK Marvin?" The petite psychiatrist stepped into the hall to call the orderlies, the door clicking shut behind her.

Left in the blank room, Marvin tugged fruitlessly at the thick cotton encasing his torso. The halls were always cold, and it was nice of the nurses to give him a jacket to keep warm, but it was too long. The sleeves came down too far, it made it hard to scratch his nose or get the jacket off if he was hot. Badly designed. The mice would have something to say about that. They always did.

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Dr. Quinzel's pert nose wrinkled as she exited the room after Marvin. She always hated these halls. They smelled of Lysol and ammonia and sweat and puke, with a nasty overtone of something cooked to limp tastelessness. Kind of like a school hallway, but magnified a hundred times. It was revolting. The entire building was revolting, one long warren of dim and dilapidated corridors interspersed with harshly white tiled halls lit by buzzing fluorescents. It was in those painfully white passages that the most dangerous cases were kept, and Harleen always felt bad for them. If they weren't crazy coming in, they certainly would be after a week of this place.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a low thumping noise. A second later, one of the younger interns, Nathaniel Strang, backed out of one of the other therapy rooms, pulling a desk behind him. He got it into the corridor, then stopped to wipe his forehead. On spotting Harleen though, standing frozen behind him, he shifted the desk deliberately, completely blocking the narrow hall in front of her.

"Please let me by," she said coldly, frost blistering from her words. He stopped trying to move the desk, and instead planted his elbows on it with forced nonchalance.

"I saw poor little Marv," he told her, mock politeness echoing in his voice. "He didn't look any better. What's the matter, he trusts the mice more than you? I don't blame him."

"Well, at least I _get_ cases," she snapped back, tiny hands balling into fists, "instead of doing grunt work."

Pity he was such a jerk, she thought, steeling herself for a fight. He was really kind of cute. Not nearly as cute as her Puddin', of course, but decently good looking, with his dark curly hair, freckle-scattered snub nose, tawny skin, and dark, liquid eyes. Dark, liquid eyes that were currently narrow with rage as he stepped forward.

It might have come to blows had Dr. Leland not chosen that moment to appear.

She seemed to size up the situation in an instant, understanding the basics if not the subtleties, and within a few heartbeats she was between the two fuming interns, trying to stop them ripping each other's eyes out.

"Hey, hey," she murmured, palms out in the universal _calm down_ gesture. "What's the problem here?"

Neither answered, too busy glaring not just daggers, but stilettos, dirks, and switchblades at each other.

Leland bit back a sigh. There was no way she would get any sense out of either of them while they were within throwing distance of each other.

"Nathaniel," she said calmly, her rich, chocolate brown eyes boring into him, "I thought I asked you to make sure the fear toxin patients were ready for their treatment?"

He didn't say anything, but stalked off down the dim hall, the desk forgotten behind him.

Once he was out of sight, she turned to Harleen, who was white-faced and trembling with rage.

"Now what was that about?" she asked calmly, her voice carefully light and even. Sometimes she wondered who needed help the most, the inmates or her coworkers.

"Nothing," Harleen said finally, dragging her eyes away from the hallway Nathaniel had vanished down. "It was nothing."

"It didn't look like nothing," Leland told her gently. "If it ever gets to be too much, Harleen…"

"S'not your fight," Dr. Quinzel told her briskly, brushing past her down the narrow corridor. Dr. Leland stared after her. Why did it have to be her fight and her fight alone? There was no shame in accepting help.

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Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage.

~Ray Bradbury

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_**A/N:**__ Francis Bacon is the artist behind Screaming Pope, a truly bizarre painting which provided a lot of the inspiration for Joker's character and costume design in TDK._

_Marvin is entirely my own invention. The pyramid mice I borrowed and altered from a family-related incident. They started as opossums._

_Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy features super-intelligent mice who attempt to find the question to life, the universe, and everything by trying to buy the brain of the last human, Arthur Dent._

_There are wild hamsters, and some do live in the deserts of Egypt._

_Yes, I know, no Bruce/Jack in this chapter either. Would it help if I promised the next one will be almost nothing but?_


	25. Unexpected, Unwelcome

_**A/N:**__ My apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I meant to have it up a few days ago, but then I got some truly fantastic news that kept me busy up until now. On a side note, if you've read my profile, you know that I hold no illusions about my ability, or lack thereof, to produce anything even vaguely deserving the term music. Despite this, I'm now playing a baritone in the school marching band. I'm still not entirely sure why. Or how, for that matter._

_There's plenty of Jack and Bruce in this chapter, as promised. Enjoy, and a huge thank-you to everyone who reviewed!_

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"They'd smash up the world if they thought it would make a pretty noise."

~ Terry Pratchett

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Jack could feel himself beginning to drift out of sleep, and while another few minutes' worth of catnapping would be nice, he was ready to wake up. So much to do, so little time, story of his life, yadda yadda. Bottom line was, there was fun to be had, and while a little more rest would be great, it couldn't compare with the prospect of pranks and panic and possibly even a few explosions. _That_ was definitely worth getting out of bed for.

He stretched luxuriously, enjoying the last few moments of warm, clean, comfortable sheets. Hopefully the next time he was between them, Bruce would be too. Speaking of which, when would Batbrain be back…?

Hazily, he glanced up at Batboy's alarm clock, only to jerk fully awake a fraction of a second later.

6:16? It was morning already? How did it get to be so late? He hadn't _really_ slept that long, right? It was just a few hours' nap!

He shot out of bed as though propelled by a cannon, snarling his irritation to the world in general as he dug through the clothes he'd stripped off for the cheap prepaid cell phone, hoping that it was all a big joke and the little red numbers wouldn't read 6:16.

They didn't.

They read 6:17.

Damn, shit, crap, merde, and whatever other expletives you wanted to add, he'd overslept. A month ago, that would never, ever have happened.

He almost snarled in frustration, yanking on last's night's wrinkled shirt without bothering to unbutton it. Bruce was wearing off on him. He was getting _soft,_ and was starting to be comfortable with a normal lifestyle, regular meals and eight hours of sleep a night and all that other _Homes & Housekeeping_ bilge. Damn it!

Jack dressed as fast as he could, throwing on his clothes in a frenzied blur, but by the time he'd finally gotten his socks on the right way, it was nearing six-thirty, and the rest of the building was beginning to stir. He'd missed his chance.

For a moment he simply stood there, dressed haphazardly in yesterday's rumpled clothes, a now useless effort, before turning on his heel and stomping into the bathroom. It was his own damn fault he'd overslept, and now there was nothing to do but wait till Bats got back.

He took his time getting ready, very deliberately washing his face and adjusting the skewed clothing. Once he'd finished, he stalked into the kitchen, wondering if Bruce was home and if there was any chance of breakfast as long as he was up, or if this really would be a waste of a morning.

Batman's butler was sitting at the kitchen table, dealing a game of Solitaire. He didn't look up as the clown he was currently sharing the penthouse with dropped into a chair across from him, looking to be in a foul, if resigned, mood.

Actually, Alfred did more than just not look up. He did his level best to ignore Jack entirely, choosing to focus on the cards laid out in front of him. His eyes drifted across the aces laid out at the top of the grid, wishing that the man across from him wouldn't try to strike up any kind of conversation. He had no desire to talk to the person responsible for the death of one of his closest friends.

He had loved Rachel as a daughter, even as he loved Bruce like a son, and this waste of a life had destroyed her for a laugh. Master Bruce might have forgotten, might have been willing to put it aside, but Alfred could not.

He would not try to dissuade his employer from spending time with him, and he would not be rude or ungracious to the man whose company Bruce seemed to enjoy, but he certainly wasn't going to have anything to do with the Joker if he could possibly help it. Especially today. For some reason the gaping absence of the stubborn lawyer he'd known since she was a toddler was hurting more than usual, and he didn't think he could politely converse with the man who'd killed her. The easiest way of keeping his promise to himself would be to simply avoid temptation.

This became considerably less easy to do when the man he was trying to ignore swiped one of the cards from the middle of his game.

"Ace of spades," Jack commented, dark eyes lingering on the bit of cardboard. "The death card. Think it's a…sign? An, uh…an _omen_, perhaps?"

"It is called Solitaire for a reason," Alfred told him, his British voice short and clipped. He plucked the card out of the other man's grasp and shuffled it neatly back into the deck.

"That a hint that ya wanna be left _a-__**lone**_?" Jack drawled.

"If it was, would you take it?" the old butler asked, focusing pointedly on the cards in his hand. Jack's paint-tinted eyebrows rose.

"No need to get your _knickers_ in a bunch," he sneered, leaning the chair back on two legs and staring at the ceiling. "Geez." Pity Bats liked the old guy so much. If anyone else had tried that, they might not have been actually dead by the time you could say 'short fuse,' but they'd certainly _wish_ that they were.

Jack didn't leave, but he didn't speak again. Neither did Alfred. They stayed that way for over an hour, sitting in the gleaming kitchen in mutually resentful and uncomfortable silence, until the sound of a key in the door signaled a change in the dynamic.

Bruce was still muttering under his breath as he stepped through the door, one hand holding his blazer shut over the blood still blossoming through his shirt. Although he didn't seem to be in the best of moods, both Alfred and Jack brightened immediately on seeing him. It was a change from seeing each other.

Bruce spared the time for a quick but sincere hello, but didn't seem to have any intention of stopping in the kitchen. Instead he made a beeline for the passage to his Batcave and the bank of computers there, ready and waiting for the typed commands that would bring them to life. He had barely made it three strides past the kitchen though before Alfred called him back.

"Off again so soon, Master Wayne? Sure you won't have some breakfast?"

"Don't have time, have to do some research," he rumbled, brushing past them.

"How _nice _to know that we've conquered your little, uh, I-can't-speak-in-full-sentences is**sue**," Jack muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. "Your grasp of the English language continues to improve." Alfred and Bruce both ignored him.

"What a relief to know you've survived another night without serious harm," Alfred told him sardonically. His tone stopped Bruce in his tracks. "The day you come back and greet me with a 'good morning' and fall-to like any other soul hungry from an evening of work instead of shutting yourself up with a fresh pile of disasters with which to torment yourself with guilt, I shall know that you're past any help a doctor could give, and call a priest instead of an asylum."

"You'll forgive me if I'm a bit distracted," Bruce said wryly, pulling the blazer open to display the fresh bloodstains. Alfred sighed, resignation stealing across his worn features.

"Perhaps not so uninjured then," he muttered, already examining the thick slash marks. Bruce made a noise of complaint.

"It's already taken care of," he protested, but his butler, knowing both his skill with a needle and his definition of 'taken care of,' insisted on seeing for himself.

He had a number of unpleasant-looking lacerations across his back and chest, all of which had been sewn up with a _very_ modest degree of skill and spread with some kind of antibacterial balm. Alfred was inclined to sniff at the sloppy stitching, but finally declared it passable and swept into the pantry to find Bruce some breakfast.

Jack watched all of this with some degree of interest, silently noting the ragged edges of the wounds and the way a few still oozed blood around the thread holding them shut. It was only when he was sure that the butler was gone that he spoke.

"What happened?" he asked, eyeing the thick cuts. Even _he_ didn't usually leave marks like that when he and the Batman fought. For a moment he felt a brief flash of simmering, singeing anger, that someone else was beating up _his_ Bat, and doing a better job of it than he did.

"Some kook calling herself Harley Quinn happened," Bruce said irritably, accepting a steaming mug of coffee. Jack froze.

_God, Buddha, Allah, Yahweh, any deity at all, __**damn it**__._ Apparently little Harley-girl _did_ have the guts to strike off on her own, and had taken it into her little blonde head that the best way to begin her career with a bang was to torment the Bat. Which might have been fine, had he not been dating said Bat.

He had to tell Bruce. If she was auditioning for the role of the city's newest bump-in-the-night bogeyman, he knew it was probably to get _his_ attention, and if he told Bruce now, maybe they could find some way of getting rid of her before she took it too far. He had to come clean about it.

He could taste the words on the tip of his tongue, clinging there like damp snow. _Gee Bats, you know, there's kind of a funny story behind that…_

"Something wrong?" Bruce asked moodily, noticing the way his Adam's apple was bobbing.

He gulped the words back, feeling their strange weight prickle the back of his throat. For a long moment, they seemed to stick there, reluctant to be swallowed down. "Nope," he said finally, "nothin'."

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"Next!" Harley groaned, cutting off the prospective henchman in mid rant. He glared at her and stalked out, unhappy to have been kept from finishing his over-elaborate list of ways he liked to kill people. Harley, for her part, had decided she didn't want this guy working for her by the time he hit # 29 and 30: poisoning the target's prescription drugs before they were picked up from the pharmacy, and bludgeoning with a glass paperweight. He had also claimed to have been the brains behind the 1984 Tylenol Murders in Chicago, though Harley had her doubts about this. For a start, the Tylenol Murders had occurred in 1982.

"Maybe we should have been a little more specific 'bout what we're lookin' for," Lewis suggested, glancing around the abandoned strip club where they were holding what Harley had insisted on calling auditions. So far, they had not been going well.

"Yeah, maybe," Harley muttered, taking out a bottle of extra-strength Aleve. The pills weren't exactly up to Jonathan's accustomed standard of pharmaceuticals, but her usual bout of monthly cramps had been getting steadily worse for the last couple of hours, not helped by the tight Spandex, and she was desperate for any kind of chemical relief.

A new henchman wannabe shuffled into view in front of them as the last one, who'd introduced himself as Roger Arnold, slammed the door behind him, still muttering about Tylenol. She glanced down at the little blue pills in her hand, sighed, then returned them to the bottle.

"Name, please," Lewis asked from next to her. Harley's eyes brightened on seeing the slim redhead girl who now moved to the bare space in front of the desk she'd set up. The kid looked barely past seventeen, but she was dressed in a Lara Croft style that Harley recognized.

"Ooh, you're 'Red' Rose Jackson, right? That femme fatale street fighter who took down six cops!"

"Well… no, not exactly," the girl giggled. Her voice was almost ludicrously high, and Harley felt her expectations drop a few notches. "But that's what I was going for! My name is Hannah, but you can call me Briar Rose. If Red Rose can do it, well, I figure, what's to stop me? I can seduce 'em an' slash 'em with the best!" She slashed what looked like a butter knife through the air to demonstrate how capable she was, and almost overbalanced in the process.

Lewis and Harley exchanged a fleeting glance.

"Uh…Miss…Briar Rose," Lewis coughed, "do you have any experience in this…um…line of work?"

"Nope, but it can't be that hard," she said cheerily. "I already know how to hotwire cars, 'an I'm good at kissing, an' I took a self-defense class…"

"I don't think you're quite what we need right now," Harley interrupted, shooing her out the door, "but we'll keep ya in mind for next time, kay? Next!"

The next potential hench stepped forward.

"I dream of fire," the boy hissed, spiky green hair shaking as he raised heavily tattooed arms, "and of chaos, and of the blood of millions…"

"Next!"

"Reasons I think I'd be a good addition to your team are…" the next man read falteringly. He stopped and squinted at the sheet of paper clutched in his meaty hands. "Dang, the ink's smeared…" He certainly didn't look the part of a good potential henchman, his potbelly crammed into badly-fitting spandex outfit that looked as though he'd picked it up at a post-Halloween discount costume sale. "Um, could you hang on while I try to figure out what this says…"

"Next!"

"If I join your gang, can I shoot my boss?" the subsequent candidate asked curiously. Harley rolled her eyes.

"Next!" she called, waving him aside. Lewis groaned.

"Doesn't look like much luck, does it?" he muttered, propping his head in his hands.

"Nope. I didn't realize findin' henches was this hard," Harley muttered back.

"It's always kind of hit-and-miss," he told her reasonably, pulling off the skullcap he always wore and running a hand through his hair. "We've seen all the kooks and loonies already, we've gotta see some decent henchman pretty soon. Joker got lucky when it came to henches, he jus' recruited all the Arkham strays still runnin' around. Didn't put mental stability or mental capacity high on the list of required skills though," he laughed softly.

"Why's a guy like you workin' fer Mistah Jay anyways?" Harley asked curiously, petting the hyena she'd christened Lou. Lewis shrugged.

"I've got a girl and a kid, I need the money."

"Bee ess," Harley said staunchly. Lewis stared at her in surprise. "I _am_ a psychologist, Lewis, an' I can tell that ain't the reason. You're smarter than most any of the other guys Mistah Jay keeps 'round, and there are easier ways to make a buck than workin' for the biggest supervillain in the city. So, why do ya do it?"

Lewis hesitated, then said, "Promise you won't spread it around?" When Harley nodded eagerly, head bouncing like a bobblehead, he sheepishly admitted, "I'm writing a book." Seeing her incredulous look, he hastily added, "No, no, it's true! I've been keepin' a journal, and if somethin' happens to me, I've got it set up so Kate gets it. I figure a memoir of one of the Joker's henchmen will be a big seller, and with the money from that, she'll be set, maybe even be able to put Danny through college."

Harley looked enchanted.

"Oooh, that's so sweet," she squealed, hugging her hyena. "Will you include me in it?" Lewis laughed.

"Yeah, definitely. You're the boss's girl, you've already got your own chapter. If you keep up the way you've been going, it'll be just as much about you as it is 'bout him. I might even have to give you your _own_ book."

Harley laughed, and the next candidate shuffled to the head of the line.

Two hours and a few dozen more prospective henchman later, they'd finally found four who seemed as though they might be suitable. It wasn't as many as they had been hoping for, but as Harley Quinn said, beggars couldn't be choosy because the choosy didn't beg. Or something to that effect, Lewis had forgotten the direct quote.

"Kind of an eclectic team," he muttered under his breath, uncomfortably aware of the rest of Harley's new helpers watching him. Somewhere in the process of acting as her advisor, he'd found himself elected as her unofficial second-in-command. Harley just laughed.

"Variety might be the spice of life," she told him brightly, "but spontaneity's the cookin' liquor that catches fire an' makes ev'ryone panic an' run 'round like crazy an' makes thing _interesting_."

Lewis had to chuckle at that.

"So," he asked casually, lacing his fingers and stretching, "when had you planned on breakin' in the new henches?"

"How 'bout," Harley said mischievously, her eyes sparkling like rhinestones, "right now?"

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Bruce supposed that for the world at large, it might be considered a bad sign when you started taking orders from your household staff. For anyone else, maybe. While most young and reckless billionaire company owners would cringe at the thought of having their agenda picked over by their aging butler, it was just part of life for him. Alfred usually knew exactly what he was talking about, and on several occasions, his good advice was all that had kept Batman's pointy-eared head attached to his shoulders. What he had to say was always well worth listening to.

Which wasn't to say that Bruce always agreed.

Like now, for example. Logically, Bruce knew that he was injured, and that going out as Batman in that condition would be a bad idea. At best, it would exasperate the already considerable physical damage. At worst, the injuries could slow him down enough to prove fatal. He knew this perfectly well. That didn't make the fact that Alfred was refusing to let him near the Bat Bunker any less irritating.

"Absolutely not, sir," his butler told him, not _quite _standing between him and the passage to the underground lair, but not letting him by either. "You're injured already, I refuse to allow you to kill yourself in the name of pursuing justice. You need a night off."

"It was just a fight by the zoo!" Bruce protested. "Just some new wannabe supervillain screwing around, it wasn't anything _too_ dangerous! Really, I'm perfectly fine." Alfred did not look convinced.

"Lucius called," he said flatly. At those two words, all the air seemed to leak out of his charge.

"Oh."

So Bruce spent the rest of the day doing some of the workout routines he'd been neglecting lately and trying not to sulk. Jack, unusually quiet for once, watched him, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

This lasted until the early evening, when Bruce would usually start dressing for another date or social appearance or, if he wasn't using the time to maintain his disguise, laying out his Batman equipment and getting ready to patrol. This time though, he just carefully replaced the set of weights he'd been using and starting sorting through his closet for what had become his standard uniform when he needed to be inconspicuous. Jack's eyebrows quirked.

"Shreck's been asking some awkward questions lately," Bruce explained, noticing his expression, "so I'm going to visit his department store, see if I can find anything out. You can come if you'd like." He failed to mention the fact that he was only going as a civilian because he couldn't as Batman. As it happened though, Jack knew anyway.

"I'll, uh, go get ready."

Which was where Bruce made his first mistake of the evening. He assumed that Jack's definition of getting ready was the same as his. And while assuming things is never a good idea, it's an especially bad idea when you are the subject of a city-wide manhunt and already struggling to balance work and an unfortunate but necessary social life.

Jack's idea of getting ready, this time anyway, involved a lot more makeup than Bruce's version did. Not paint. Makeup. Rouge, foundation, eye shadow, and real lipstick. And a skirt. And jewelry. Jack was going Jill. It had worked that time with the hospital, after all.

The trick, he reflected, threading the earrings through the tiny holes in the lobes of his ears, to making a disguise convincing was to get the details right. A guy in a skirt and makeup was just a drag queen. A feminine-looking person with the shoes, the jewelry, the body language, and all the rest was a _real_ disguise. To do it right, you had to go all the way.

He put the finishing touches on the costume, gave himself a once-over to check that he hadn't missed anything, and stepped out of the bathroom.

"Done," he said, his voice just a touch higher than usual.

"About time," his arch-nemesis grunted, "you were taking as long as a…"

Bruce turned around…and he couldn't help it. His jaw dropped. He knew he was looking at Jack, alias the Joker, who was _very_ definitely a man, but that didn't make the illusion any less convincing. The girl before him probably wouldn't win a beauty pageant, but no one who looked at her would have guessed that she moonlighted as a clown-faced terrorist who was not, in fact, female. It really was astounding, from the carefully applied makeup to the tiny earrings to the body build. He had curves in places he couldn't _possibly_ have had curves.

"How…" he asked weakly, voice trailing off. Under the customary scarf, he could see Jack's scarred lips quirk in an ironic smile.

"Amazin', isn't it, what you can do with a little padding in the right places."

Quite against his will, Bruce's eyes were drawn to his torso. Though by no means generous, the padding was undeniably in the right places, and if he hadn't known it to be cotton wool or something similar, he would have taken an affidavit that the chest was entirely authentic. It was a moment before he could focus enough to see the shirt itself and not just what was under it.

Jack's shirt today was a woman's T-shirt, bizarrely tight over the padded chest, with the classic 'I heart' symbols. Except instead of the usual NYC, or the name of another city, it had a rather badly drawn rendering of the Batsignal.

_I heart Batman?_

Bruce was about to protest, until Jack, sensing his intent, told him bluntly that he ought to be grateful it wasn't the one that said 'Batman is my hunnybunny.'

There was silence. And more silence. After about a minute, Jack decided, with no little interest, that he had never seen anyone go pale and turn red at the same time before. Batman was even more unique than he'd realized.

"…they make those?" Bruce finally managed to choke out.

"Yep," Jack laughed, "in, uh, women's sizes only, unfortunate_**ly**_, otherwise I'd already have one."

"But _why_?" Bruce asked helplessly, floundering like a fish on a riverbank. "I mean, why dress up like this?" He was having trouble wrapping his mind around it. Panic-inducing gas, he could accept. Clown-faced assassins, he could handle. But his archenemy-turned-friend cross-dressing, he was having difficulties with.

"Well, now that Quinzel recognized my, uh, other disguise, I'll need a new one, won't I?"

For once, Bruce had to admit that he had a point. Then a new thought occurred to him.

"Wait…what happens if…like those kids in the alley…if we…you're a girl…" He fumbled for words, finding himself tongue-tied for the first time in almost twenty years. His natural wit and eloquence had never deserted him like this before. Although admittedly, before this, he had never been faced with his greatest nemesis in a skirt.

"Yep, for today, I am indeed a _gal_," Jack drawled, eyes glittering. "Don't get your boxers in a twist, Batsy, it's, uh, it's not that bad. I've done weirder." Bruce was again forced to admit that this was quite probably true. "But, by the by, are you, by chance, asking what happens if we should _possibly_ chance to run across some men, not, uh, as _gentlemanly_ as yourself, who may try to…_take advantage_, of a damsel in distress?"

Bruce swallowed heavily. "Yeah," he admitted.

"Well, that's where, uh, _you _come in," Jack said brightly, adjusting the skirt across his narrow hips. Bruce was quite sure his jaw had dropped like a skydiver with a defective parachute.

"…excuse me?" Jack was honestly expecting him to act as his…escort?

"Well, it's for _their_ protection, really, not mine," he said playfully, taking Bruce's arm.

"How do you figure?"

"If any of 'em ever tried to pick me up, I'd, ah, be forced to kill them. Havin' _you_ around should discourage 'em."

Apparently so.

Bruce was not pleased, about that or about the situation in general. However, all his arguments against the idea did him no good, and before long, he and Jack were on their way to Shreck's store. He had the unpleasant feeling, deep in the pit of his stomach, that the lamb had just set out for the lion's den in the company of a wolf.

If only he could figure out which of them was which.

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Bruce Wayne cursed under his breath and leapt back onto the curb. He could jump off skyscrapers and cling to speeding trains without so much as a shudder, but crossing the street in downtown Gotham in broad daylight seemed to be beyond even his considerable talents.

"That was a _red_ light, you moron," he muttered, waiting for the safety of the crowd to envelop him before attempting to cross again. You knew something was wrong when it was easier to chase a clown in a weapon-filled eighteen wheeler down a street than it was to walk across the same street in one piece.

"If ya manage to survive for two more blocks, you'll just have to handle the crowds," Jack told him, stepping neatly off the curb. Bruce fell in him beside him, still a little disgruntled.

"I still can't get used to you in drag," he muttered under his breath when they had, with some minor difficulty, survived another block and a half. Jack turned to him, looking rather affronted.

"I am no_**t**_ in drag, I'm in disguise! If ya do it _right,_ if ya go all the way, it's not drag."

"In that case," Bruce asked snidely, eyeing his plain and distinctly flat-soled shoes, "shouldn't you be wearing high heels?"

"Nope," he said stubbornly. "I draw the line at heels. I'm masochistic, Bats, not suicidal. There _is_ a difference."

Bruce rolled his eyes, but allowed the conversation to die away as they approached the gleaming glass and brick facade of Shreck's Department Store, towering above the more modest shops around it. He hesitated, but decided to maintain the illusion and chivalrously allowed Jack through the revolving door ahead of him. Jack smirked, a broad grin drawing his mutilated mouth wide.

"Oh, how _kind,_ sir," he giggled breathlessly, fluttering his eyelashes ridiculously. "How…gentlemanly. How…noble! It's a rare thing, to find a man so _heroic, _and so _handsome_ too. You're every gal's dream! You're…"

"Shut up," Bruce muttered back, heading for the music section.

Jack followed him gleefully, still hissing mocking character commendations, which Bruce easily tuned out. His training in the Himalayas had taught him that much at least, although he hadn't thought he'd ever need to use it on a cross-dressing clown.

Now that Jack's ranting had been reduced to a background buzz, Bruce began flipping through a rack of CDs at random, more for effect than because he was really interested in the store's selection. This section was mostly vocals; a capella groups and songs by famous opera singers seemed to be the norm. Nothing he was interested in.

Bruce flipped past a recording of Michael Crawford to a CD of Bhutanese prayer chants, and paused.

He'd been back in Gotham for less than a year, and even now he still had moments when he had trouble adjusting. Reminders, like this CD, of what was almost a past life just made it all the more unsettling. Most of his adult life had been spent wandering, scrounging for food, getting into fights, training for fights, or in prison. It was hard to reconcile the simultaneously decadent and corrupt conundrum of modern Gotham American life with the starkly honest poverty he'd lived and trained in for so long. Sometimes he felt as though he was moving in a dream, watching a movie reel of the way people on the other side of the globe lived, waiting for the lights to come on so he could go back to his brutal, edifying training in the monastery of the League of Shadows.

Those two segments of life were completely different, to the point of ridiculousness. Here, he was pampered and coddled, constantly under the scrutiny of millions of people, with everything done for him before he even had to ask. There, he was just another street rat, stealing to survive and dodging through the shadowed alleys towards his next confrontation, learning on his feet and paying the price when he didn't learn fast enough. How could one man live such a contradiction?

For a moment he existed in two worlds. Bruce Wayne's hustling, glittering city skyline overlapped with the black and white silhouette of the monastery in the mountains, the drone of two-dimensional shoppers chattering blending with the grunts of nameless, faceless martial arts acolytes, and he wondered, _which one is my world?_

Then the strains of the Beatles' song 'Hello, Goodbye' began drifting through the mounted speakers of the upscale department store, and the illusion shattered. Next to him, Jack jerked in surprise.

"I _like_ this song!" he exclaimed, immediately humming along. Bruce fought the urge to start chuckling inanely. No one could deny that Joker was brilliant. Quite possibly crazy, but brilliant nonetheless. And in getting to know Jack, he'd discovered that the other man had a number of unexpected talents.

A natural musical ability, however, was _not _one of them.

Bruce hesitated a moment, then palmed the CD of chants and followed Jack through the racks of discs to a display of cameras and iPods. A few of the sleek new technological marvels, he noted with an odd mix of pride and discomfiture, had the Wayne logo stenciled on them.

Out of force of habit, both of them began casing the building, checking for cameras and security and planning the best ways to enter and leave unseen and unstopped.

"Kinda weird, how there are more cameras in certain areas," Jack muttered, brown eyes tracking the surveillance camera's arc and filing it away for later use. "_**In**_teresting."

"Well, I'd guess it all depends on whether it's a high-risk area or not. No one's ever succeeded in smuggling a three-piece leather sectional out under their jacket," Bruce reasoned, not really expecting a response.

"_Really?_" Jack asked with a little too much interest. Bruce got the unpleasant feeling that he'd just provided Joker with his next challenge, and decided to keep his mouth shut, a resolution that lasted through the furniture and cooking departments and into the tools section at the front of the store.

What happened at that point rendered his personal vow completely irrelevant.

Bruce was used to odd things happening around him. He just seemed to attract trouble, no matter how hard he tried to fade into the background. This was especially true whenever he was around Jack. Even with that in mind though, he still hadn't expected two snarling hyenas and a half-dozen people in various garishly red and black costumes to burst into the store, waving guns and intent on robbing the place for all they could get. Nonetheless, that was what happened.

All around him, people began screaming, and Jack froze like a mouse who'd caught sight of an owl. Bruce didn't even notice, too busy staring at the petite girl right in the middle of the crowd of bulky henchmen.

_Harley Quinn!_

Dammit, of all the places he didn't want to be caught…

He forced himself to breathe, reminding himself that he'd been dressed as Batman when they met, and that he was dressed as a civilian now, anonymous and average, just another face in the crowd. It still took all he had not to react as Batman would. His tense muscles trembled with the effort to keep still. _Keep control, Batman. Focus._

"Guess what!" Harley called brightly, beaming around at the stunned shoppers, a pistol in one hand and an enormous mallet in the other. "I'm robbin' this joint! And I don't actually wanna hurt too many of you, so if ya'll could just lay down and stay there, that would be jus' dandy! We'll let ya know when you can get up again, once we're done."

Bruce obeyed, along with the rest of the crowd, slowly sinking to the dirty tile floor.

_Oh fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…_

Then he heard one of the harlequins, his dark brown hands clenched around the hyenas' taut leather leashes, say, "I think Joker'll _definitely_ notice this, Harley."

_Joker?_

He felt those two syllables thrill through him like a bolt of electricity, and it was a moment before his brain could process this new bit of information. When it did, things suddenly got a lot more complicated.

Bruce turned to stare at Jack, who was lying next to him, wearing an expression of startled foreboding.

_He is so dead._

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"I've relinquished control of my insanity."

~Johnny the Homicidal Maniac

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_**A/N:**__ The ace of spades is indeed the card that symbolizes death. I'm not quite sure why. The nine of hearts symbolizes love._

_In 1982, someone poisoned at least eight bottles of Extra-Strength Tylenol and left them in Chicago drugstores, which led to the deaths of seven people. A man named Roger Arnold was investigated, which caused him to have a nervous breakdown and shoot a man he mistook for a local bar owner._

_Harley's henchman auditions are based on a similar scene from 'Preludes and Knock-Knock Jokes.' The 'blood of millions' kid (though he started as a girl) and Lewis's explanation for his choice of job are both borrowed from the comic and tweaked to my satisfaction._

_Wacker is one of my least favorite streets in Chicago to try and cross. Wacker is also where they filmed part of the chase scene in TDK. Thus was born Bruce's difficulty._

_Michael Crawford is the original Phantom of the Opera, and as far as I'm concerned, the best. I apologize to those who prefer Gerard Butler, but nothing will ever convince me that the 2004 version is an improvement on the stage performance._


	26. Damage Control

_**A/N: **__Next update will be a little slow, as I'm leaving first thing in the morning for a week-long art course with one of my friends, and I'm using it as an opportunity to force myself to take a break from writing. I've already got part of the next chapter written though, so we'll see._

_This one is for Shmellington, J-Horror Girl, and anyone else who expressed an interest in the origins of Bruce's octopus story. All will be explained next chapter._

_On a random side note, if anyone is interested in drawing some of the scenes from this, please let me know! I'd love to see them on paper, but my drawing skills are woefully inadequate to capture the sheer awesomeness that is Ledger's Joker. Illustrations will be greeted with great praise, delight, many heartfelt thanks, and a huge batch of my special chocolate cherry cookies._

_As always, thanks to everyone who took the time to review, and enjoy!_

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He was having more fun than a barrelful of monkeys.*

*Several years earlier Spider had actually been tremendously disappointed by a barrelful of monkeys. It had done nothing he had considered particularly entertaining, apart from emit interesting noises, and eventually, once the noises had stopped and the monkeys were no longer doing anything at all—except possibly on an organic level—had needed to be disposed of in the dead of night.

~ Neil Gaiman

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On the whole, Harley was enjoying herself.

Sure, she probably could have planned her first heist out a little better. A few more henchmen would have been helpful, and it might have been a good idea to case the place first, but nothing had gone wrong so far, knock on wood. She rapped her knuckles on her head, and giggled at her own joke. Yep, it was going well. It was a tense situation, of course, but it was going as well as could be expected. She'd decided this would be a practice robbery, more about the education it offered than about the haul, and so far it had not disappointed in that respect.

The only thing really bothering her right now were the persistent cramps, a deep ache low in her stomach that pulled taut every time she brandished her gun. If she could have gotten rid of those, she would've been floating so high she'd need to request clearance to land.

One of the people on the ground, a middle-aged woman, stirred, and Harley pointed the pistol at her, the click of the gun cocking echoing tinnily. The woman froze immediately, and Harley winced and put a hand to her stomach. The list of things she wouldn't have been willing to part with in exchange for the cramps and migraines to be over would have fit in a walnut shell.

Then she noticed a display of Lindt's chocolates (on sale for 20% off). After being reminded of the Tylenol Murders, the thought of taking prepackaged medication for her cramps kind of squicked her, but if she couldn't have pills…

"Um, Harley, what are you doing?" Lewis asking, looking bemused. Without pausing in stuffing as many bags of truffles into her duffel bag as she could fit, she answered.

"I'm takin' the chocolate too! Be a dear an' pass me another sack, wouldja?"

Perplexed, Lewis handed over another gym bag. She finished swiping all of the pink packages of raspberry bonbons, then added a few packets of mint, hazelnut, and orange just for variety.

"OK, done," she said finally, zipping it shut. "Did we get all the money yet?"

"Not yet," Lewis muttered, glancing back at the rest of the henchmen. He was keeping an eye on the hostages and on Harley's pet hyenas, and Harley was busy enjoying her first real holdup. That left the other four henchmen, one of whom was occupied making sure that the beleaguered shoppers stayed on the ground, one who was watching the escalator to make sure that no one from the upper floors tried to come down, and one who was guarding the door, while the final henchman went from register to register, collecting the money. He'd made it about two-thirds of the way through, but they had to finish this _soon_, or there would be trouble. For all their incompetence, even the Gotham police could hardly fail to respond to reports of a robbery in Gotham's largest and most successful department store.

Harley seemed to have the same idea.

"Let's move it!" she called, an unusual note of steel in her bubble-gum voice. The hench collecting the cash began to move a little quicker, gesturing impatiently with his gun until the stunned cashier had handed over a wad of bills. Only a few more to go, and they could be out of here with the loot…

Meanwhile, Harley had tapped another of the henches, a massive boulder of a man who went by Buster, on the shoulder.

"I'll keep an eye on the civilians," she told him confidently. "Couldja be a dear and run to the pet department, find some collars for the hyenas?" she asked, gesturing at the two slavering beasts. "Somethin' cute, maybe red an' black, or green and purple?" He looked flummoxed at this request, but nodded, and began loping through the store, sawed-off shotgun held at the ready. "An' make sure they're the right size!" she called at his retreating back.

Meanwhile, the shoppers she'd apprehended, and two particularly among them, were not having nearly as good a time of it.

Bruce was used to being on the wrong end of a gun. That was nothing new. But usually there was armor between him and the bullets, and he typically wasn't flat on the ground with his hands behind his head. And, though he hated to admit it, he very much missed his mask. Without it and his armor, he felt horribly exposed, as though he'd just run into the middle of a firefight wearing nothing but a pair of socks. He wasn't used to being so powerless, so completely and utterly unable to do anything to help himself, or those around him, all crouched on the ground and whispering prayers to every manner of deities and saints. He noticed a tiny girl lying as close to her mother as she could, and felt his anxiety swell like a helium balloon, expanding to fill his chest and throat.

Harley had said she didn't want to kill anyone, and so far she hadn't. That could change at any moment though, and if it did, it was his duty as Batman to do what he could to protect the people, whether he was fully equipped or not. This was made much more complicated though by the fact that it was broad daylight and not only was he unequipped, he was also unarmed, unmasked, unarmored, and completely unprepared. _Maybe the boy scouts had the right idea after all._ Pity he'd dropped out of the local troupe, although in his defense, he didn't think that learning to whittle duck calls would've helped him fight a femme fatale with a flair for fools.

If he tried to take her down, he'd almost certainly reveal himself as Batman, and someone was bound to recognize him as Bruce Wayne. He couldn't risk his identity. But if he saw her on the brink of shooting an innocent bystander, could he really just lie there?

_If she or her goons threaten one of the civilians, then I'll have to do what I can, _he thought, mind racing. _If it looks like she'll just take the money and leave, I'll stay incognito. _Then something happened that distracted him from his thoughts of blood and duty.

While his keepers were distracted, the smaller of the two hyenas was sniffing curiously at the people on the ground, pacing back and forth in front of their prone forms. Harley had christened him Bud, although far more often she just called him 'Baby.' To him, this was all quite exciting, although it would be improved tenfold if one of these people felt like getting up and rubbing his tummy instead of lying there. He paused about and nosed hopefully at a diminutive Indian man, who squeaked in terror and tried to shrink in on himself. Bud gave him up as a bad job and continued his tour of the captives.

Flat on his stomach and his hands laced behind his head, Bruce felt his heart rate ratchet up with every step the hyena took towards him, until it felt as though the organ would beat itself out of his chest. As long as he stayed low-key, Harley wouldn't recognize him without the armor and cowl, but the hyena might. And if he did, Bruce could imagine any number of unpleasant things that might happen.

The soft _click click _of the predator's claws came steadily closer, pausing not more than two feet away from him, so close Bruce could smell the feral wet dog stink rolling off him. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and pressed himself against the floor, praying that the panting scavenger would lose interest.

_If you go away, I swear I'll find a way to send you back to Africa, so you can run free and hunt gazelle and do whatever it is hyenas do in the wild instead of being stuck in a postage-stamp-sized zoo cage._

Even if the hyena had understood his offer, he probably wouldn't have accepted. In Africa, he would have had to contend with frequent droughts and spend hours hunting for food only to have the local lion pride take most of it. Besides, the African wilds did not have air conditioning, Cheetos, couches, Big Macs, squeaky toys, or the small human he had already come to regard as Mistress, who provided all of these delights. No, Africa would definitely be a step down from his life right now.

He did _not_ understand this though, so when he continued to snuffle at the man on the ground, it was out of curiosity rather than spite. This big human smelled interesting, like something he'd scented before, though his memory of that encounter was overwhelmed by the reek of tar and tangy sweat and the stench of gunpowder, amidst which the more subtle human scent was almost lost. He'd definitely smelled this before though. But when?

Then the elusive scent fell into place and his ears immediately flattened against his skull, a growl rising in his throat like water. This human had tried to hurt Mistress. This was before she had been Mistress, but the big human had been hunting her. He was acting without a pack too, an oddity, a vicious, unpredictable lone predator. Now he was in the middle of Bud's new Pack, and threatening his Alpha. He must protect Mistress!

The hyena was standing over him, so close Bruce could feel the beast's breath against the back of his neck, and he nearly gagged. Every hair on his body was on end, knowing that those teeth snapping by his left ear could slam into his spine and sever it with only a few sharp bites.

"Shoo!" he hissed, as vehemently as he could with his face against the unswept linoleum. "Shoo! Bad hyena! Bad! Shoo!"

Bud reacted as a dog would to the b-word, cringing away from the accusation, but didn't stop growling, his spotted fur bristling. Bruce's attempts to get him to either leave or shut up were met with warning yips, and just to add the cherry to the top of one gigantic, demented cake, his low, menacing snarls drew the attention of Harley.

"What is it, baby?" she cooed, craning her neck to get a look at what he found so threatening. "What's scarin' you, huh?" Unable to answer, Bud just whimpered, his eyes still fixed on Bruce's prone form.

She took two steps closer, then a few more, her chunky red and black boots clopping on the tile, and Bruce fought the urge to defend himself. He could be upright and throwing punches inside of a second…

…_which would do you no good, because they have guns and you have no armor,_ he reminded himself, with difficulty. _You are strictly a civilian today, so act like one and stay where you are!_

But Harley, and the damn hyena…

_Clop clop clop…_

If she decided to sic the beast on him again…

_Clop clop…_

Only a few steps now…

"We're done here!" the henchman collecting the cash called abruptly, yanking the zipper shut on the duffel bag. Harley immediately turned away from Bruce, her curiosity abandoned in the interest of getting out of there.

"Babies!" she called, clapping her hands. "C'mon, babies!" Both scavengers instantaneously scrambled across the linoleum and pressed themselves against her legs, as close as they could get to her. Bruce allowed the breath he'd been holding to escape past his lips.

_Almost safe_.

Harley, wanting to make a dramatic exit, fired her pistol into the ceiling with a cry of, "For the Joker!" Who, as it turned out, was not at all happy to have his name attached to this carnival disaster, and couldn't _wait _to demonstrate this to his enthusiastic new disciple.

Having had her say, Harley jerked her head in the direction of the door, bells tinkling, and her gang immediately clumped up and began edging towards the exit and freedom. Bruce watched their every step, calculating his chances and options.

When the cops arrived, they'd try to take statements from the witnesses, which was the last thing he wanted to do now. His best chance would be to grab Jack and slip out as soon as the motley gang was gone, before the police had had time to set up a perimeter. Otherwise he'd be hemmed in by the herd, stuck here for hours when every minute was a risk.

The red and black group was only a few yards from the door, being tracked by the ears, if not the eyes, of every hostage hoping against hope that they'd come out of this alive and unmaimed. Bruce watched them go, silently counting the steps till they reached the door and were gone. He knew that on his right, Jack was doing the same.

Bruce had it partially right. Jack _was_ watching the small band, but he was also fuming mad. Despite what the Arkham quacks seemed to think, he was sane enough to realize that pitching a fit while he was dressed as a woman and the other group had guns was probably not a good idea, but he was definitely _not _happy about it.

Harley now had hyenas. And Bruce had mentioned a fight at the zoo. That meant that not only was she muscling in on the territory he had rightfully stolen, she had also hijacked the scavengers he had wanted! The nerve of some people. Maybe she didn't regret it now, he thought, watching her with needle-slit eyes, but she would. He'd make sure of it.

She, her pets, and her henchmen were only a few steps from the door now, so close to their escape they could taste it. One craned his neck around the corner to peer through the glass, and froze.

"Cops!" he hissed, waving his gun like a lasso. "Not here yet, but headed this way! Fifty yards and gaining!"

"No," another one breathed, joining him at the window, "not cops. Reporters!"

"That's worse!"

Against his will, Bruce was mildly impressed. It was a little less than ten minutes since the store's silent alarms would have been tripped, which was an even worse than average response time for the GPD, but an excellent hustle from the city's newshounds.

"We'll have to find another way out," Harley said, and for the first time, a note of what might have been uncertainty had crept into her voice. "We can't leave that way."

"Back door," the one who'd been holding the hyenas called, gesturing. "This way!"

The sound of his voice made Jack jump, and take a second look at him. All of the henchmen were wearing coats in varying patterns of red and black, and all of them looked relatively the same, but there was something slightly off about that one. It was almost like he knew him from somewhere…

Oh damn.

For a moment, Jack didn't believe it. Didn't _want_ to believe it. That was stretching it, even for a girl with no idea of a supervillain's code of conduct or criminal courtesy. Surely even knew Harley wouldn't…?

But as he followed the half-dozen humans and pair of hyenas beating a hasty retreat through the fire exit at the rear of the store, he was forced to admit that the one in the back was indeed Lewis. _His _henchman Lewis.

_God dammit, she beat up my Bat, she took my hyenas, and now she stole one of my henchclowns!_ That was so far out of line that it had ceased even to be a straight line segment and was leaning towards something approaching a Pollock painting. Taking another villain's henchclown was just _low_.

Come to think of it, was there any guarantee that Lewis was the only one of his henchmen she had run off with? Her team had seemed a little too intelligent to be any of his (at least one of them could read, for one thing), but you never knew. He just had time to console himself with thoughts of bloody revenge before the dam broke and the store went ballistic.

The next few minutes were a confused crush of correspondents and police arriving almost simultaneously and doing their best to get to the shell-shocked shoppers and block the other group from getting there first. He missed most of it, lost in dwelling on the myriad uses methane and toothpicks could be put to in his newly-formed vendetta against Harley. It was only when a few particularly intrepid reporters recognized Bruce Wayne, and loudly and gleefully announced this to the world, that he came back to himself and the situation at hand.

A brief moment's observation of the three-ring media circus the store had abruptly become gave him all the details he needed. All thoughts of revenge were shunted aside, to make way for a prime opportunity to spread a little chaos.

The reporters who'd made it to the crime scene were delighted to have ended up with an even bigger scoop than they'd dared dream. Before, when the report had first come in and it had looked like there might be a new supervillain in town, it had been interesting. Now that they knew Bruce Wayne had been caught in the hold-up, it was biggest story on the news right now.

It got even bigger when they got a load of the pretty blonde standing next to him.

For Bruce, it was stumbling into something akin to a nightmare. The police were too busy trying to set up a perimeter to intervene, and so he was left alone, no better prepared than he had been with Harley Quinn, to deal with a mob of professional snoops baying for blood. Snoops who would not only take notice of him, something he didn't want in the first place, but would do their damnest to pick him apart bit by bit for the amusement of the town. He had gone out of the frying pan straight into the roaring fire.

With the exception of one Vicki Vale, Bruce hated reporters. His experiences abroad had made him wary of drawing attention to himself, and he was far more at ease when steeped in shadow or hidden in a crowd. Unfortunately, maintaining his alter ego demanded a flashy, attention-drawing lifestyle, for which reporters were necessary evil. That didn't mean he liked them in any way, or wanted anything more than the minimum possible to do with them.

Unfortunately, they loved him.

Once they'd spotted him, the questions flew thick and fast, overlapping onto each other, quicker than he could possibly answer them - not that he made much effort to. All of the reporters clambered for his attention at once, shoving tape recorders at him or holding their pens poised and ready.

"Mr. Wayne, what do you know about this so-called Harley Quinn?"

"Any thoughts on your recent experience?" an intern sandwiched between two of her colleagues inquired.

"How do you feel now that it's over?" another asked. Bruce's head swam with the incredible din.

"Were you frightened at all? Did she seem unstable?"

"Who's your friend?" one called, shoving a microphone through a gap in the crowd. Damn it, this one he'd actually have to address, before the speculation got too wild. Bruce opened his mouth, mind racing for an answer, but Jack beat him to it.

"Jaclyn," he said mischievously, wrapping one arm possessively around Bruce. "Jaclyn...al Ghul."

Bruce stared at him, aghast. He ignored Bruce. He knew that bringing up Batman's old mentor would be a surefire way to ruffle the Bat's feathers, and it was just too much fun to resist. He also knew there would be hell to pay later. Right now though, the consequences were irrelevant when compared to the potential for chaos.

Bruce sucked in a deep gulp of air and forced himself to act casual, a feat possible only because of the soothing images his brain was providing, detailing exactly what he could do to a certain clown without breaking his rule.

"We met while I was traveling," he finally added to Jack's earlier statement, seeing that it was too late to try and change his claim and the reporters had no intention of letting the matter lie. Maybe if he threw them a bone, it would help get this over sooner.

"And how did you and Jaclyn come to be here, Mr. Wayne?" a redheaded correspondent asked coyly, dangling her microphone in front of his mouth. "Doesn't seem like your usual brand of hangout."

Bruce's combat-trained mind had switched into damage control mode. It was too late to get Jack out of here immediately without a big fuss, so the most he could hope for was to get rid of the reporters as quickly and gracefully as he could. But that was banking on the fact that that Jack would keep his mouth shut, which was unlikely to impossible, and that the newshounds wouldn't be especially interested in him, also unlikely… Oh god. That damnable shirt. How could he explain his…date…wearing an 'I heart Batman' shirt? He risked a quick glance, and his jackhammer heartbeat slowed, albeit marginally. Jack had his jacket on over it. Small favors.

_OK, priorities,_ he decided. _First off, get away from the journalists. Try to keep them away from Jack as much as possible. Then, try to get out of here. Once we're out of the way…figure what __**exactly**__ Jack knows about Harley Quinn!_

"She lives…on the East Side," he lied desperately. "The store's about halfway between us, so we decided to meet here." _Don't ask why I didn't just drive to her house._

All of the journalists immediately began scribbling, and he knew he'd be filling the gossip columns for the next week, at the epicenter of rumors and wild speculation of illicit affairs and secret lovers.

It could be worse, he consoled himself. Bad as this was, none of these people knew him personally, which would make it that much easier to fake his way out of this.

Then things got worse.

"Bruce?" someone asked, stepping past the police barricade and ignoring the petite Hispanic woman telling him – in an increasingly irate tone – that this was something he shouldn't be doing. "Bruce fuckin' Wayne, is that you?"

"Howard?" Bruce gasped, flabbergasted. _Oh please, no…_

"Hey, you do remember! Oh, man, it is good to see you!" Howard grinned, hurrying over. Bruce nodded with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, the bulbs of a dozen different cameras strobe-lighting what would be labeled a tearful, joyous reunion, to be dissected in detail in tomorrow's celebrity gossip rag.

"Yeah, great," he echoed hollowly, eyeing his old college roommate.

Howard Martins, who he had attended school with for two years before dropping out and switching colleges yet again. The Martins he'd known then had been a spoiled loudmouth of a trust-fund brat who spent most of his time staring at the bottom of a wine bottle, hoping it would miraculously refill itself.

Perhaps he'd improved with age…?

"Awww, Bruce," he rumbled, clapping his old acquaintance on the back. "It's been too long, man! Where've you been, eh? Too busy chasing pussy to look up a pal?"

And perhaps not.

"You know how it goes," Bruce told him, forcing a laugh. "Just so much going on…"

"Yeah, I know, a lot happening," Martins agreed, leering at Jack, who merely looked intrigued. "Lissen, now that we're both here, we should go out to dinner, catch up! Talk about old times, like that one party at Ratford's, and the eggplant thing…"

Bruce winced imperceptibly, nothing but a slight tightening of the facial muscles. _Oh god, he's not going to bring up the octopus thing, is he?_

"…and that time in the swamp, and that thing with the octopus…"

"I don't think I can," Bruce interjected immediately, trying to look regretful. "I've got a lot to do…"

"Oh, come on Bruce," Jack whined suddenly, looking every inch the part of the pouty girlfriend. "I wanna meet your friend!" Bruce caught his eye, and did his level best to convey by gaze alone just how much pain he would be in as soon as they were out of there.

"Yeah, listen to the lady, Wayne!" Martins guffawed. "You can't just skip out on me now. How about dinner at the Prism? My treat, just as soon as we can get past these idiots," he said, gesturing to the harassed-looking cops struggling to keep the reporters at bay.

Bruce had the sense to realize when he was beat.

"That would be great," he lied, forcing his mouth into a lemon-sucking smile.

_Please let it end soon._

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Somewhere on the other side of Gotham, in the penthouse suite of a chic hotel, someone was watching the report being broadcasted from the department store. Her storm-colored eyes drank in every frame of the footage, noting the way the over-tall blonde girl was clinging to Bruce Wayne. One flawlessly pale hand clenched over the remote. She was _not_ happy.

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I don't think I can survive any more visits from old friends.

~Jack Sparrow, _Pirates of the Caribbean_

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_**A/N:**__ Suggestion is a powerful thing. I recently heard about a local Chinese takeout place that was shut down because they were caught using cat meat instead of chicken, and then went to my favorite Thai café with my family soon after. I don't even know if the story was true, and I know for a definite fact that the Thai place only uses fresh organic ingredients where they can verify the source, but I still couldn't bring myself to order chicken and rice. Sometimes just knowing something is enough to turn you off to the idea, and that's what I was going for with Harley's pill aversion. Chocolate is a good alternative though, especially Lindt's. :)_


	27. Hell In A Handbasket

_**A/N:**__ Yes, I'm back. I really am sorry to have left this for so long, but it's back now. These words have become almost meaningless through constant overuse, but thank you, to everyone who stuck with this. I am truly thankful for everyone who's read this story and reviewed in the meantime._

_As a somewhat peculiar perk, while depression doesn't do much for writing somewhat zany romances, it did help me to the point that I now have the second, much darker half of this story almost completely done. After Bruce and Jack have succeeded in getting rid of Harley and at least partially dealing with the mob problem, this story will get a good deal grimmer. There are a number of reasons for this, but the biggest is that, no matter how much fun Batman and Joker are to write and to play with, they are both very damaged, very messed up individuals, and I think any relationship between them needs to reflect that._

_Now, enough delays, after a very long delay indeed. Happy reading!_

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"I don't believe in good and evil. People are either charming or tedious."

~ Oscar Wilde

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Howard Martins looked like nothing so much as an aristocratic camel, complete with the snort.

Or at least that was Jack's immediate impression, one that he found reaffirmed in every slight gesture and syllable given off by their host as he and his fuming boyfriend were led by a tuxedo'd maitre de to a table at one of Gotham's most exclusive, most expensive – and most over-excessive – restaurants. Bruce trailed behind him, looking less than delighted.

_I am with Joker, who is dressed as a girl, pretending to be my girlfriend, borrowing the name of my teacher turned enemy, and we are about to go out to dinner with my college roommate, who will drink too much and start telling embarrassing stories and advertising everything he's ever known or heard or guessed about me._

_**Fuck.**_

His phone buzzed like an angry wasp, and he glanced at the pixilated screen.

Beatrix. _Great_. Exactly what he needed, another complication.

He gritted his teeth and answered it.

"I really can't talk right now, I'll call you back," he said at once, before she could get even a syllable out. Without waiting for a response, he flicked the sleek little phone shut and stowed it back in his pocket. He'd find a way to deal with her later.

They arrived at their linen-draped table, and the maitre de bowed them into their heavily padded seats. Bruce sank into his as though it was a not-so-distant relation of the electrical chair, and Jack slipped into the one next to it with remarkable grace, hands folded delicately in his lap. Martins simply dropped his not inconsiderable bulk into his and seized the wine menu.

_Definitely a camel,_ Jack decided, watching him curiously. He had the bulbous nose and thick rubbery lips, and even a thin coat of scraggly sand-colored hair dusted across his cheeks and chin. His eyes were dark and liquid and long-lashed, but set under curiously heavy brows that were not at all counterbalanced by his rather weak chin. If he'd been a thoughtful man, he might have managed to look dignified, but with the entirely appropriate vapid expression he usually wore, he just looked foolish. Under the scarf, Jack's wicked smile grew. This was a guy he could have fun with.

"So tell me about yourself," he prompted, unfolding his napkin and spreading it demurely across his lap. "How do you know my Brucey?"

"Your Brucey?" Martins smirked, looking up from the wine list. "Hate to break it to you, gorgeous, but from what I hear, he's been just about every girl in this town's Brucey."

Bruce could happily have gutted him with any one of the superfluous forks arrayed beside his plate.

"We'll just see about that," Jack purred, one slim hand finding Bruce's leg under the table. Bruce shifted uncomfortably, wishing fervently to be anywhere but here. And he did mean _anywhere_.

His mood was not improved in the slightest by the scene they'd created trying to leave the store through the police perimeter.

To say that it was embarrassing would be putting it very lightly indeed. Frankly, it was one of the most disgusting displays of apathetic, juvenile egotism Bruce had ever witnessed, and he was ashamed to say that he'd been party to it. Howard Martins had spent the last ten years being the person Bruce Wayne pretended to be while in public, and had no qualms about throwing his clout around wherever he felt like it, including into the ranks of Bruce's poor, battered police department. If he thought that Bruce and his girlfriend should get to leave the crime scene early, he saw nothing wrong with pitching a very expensive temper tantrum until they could.

In the end, the police had reluctantly agreed that they could get statements from Bruce Wayne and Jaclyn al Ghul at a later time. Bruce was grateful for the reprieve, but it had been purchased at far too high a cost.

Gordon's good opinion mattered more to Bruce than anyone else's, save perhaps Alfred's, and he knew that whatever lingering goodwill the tough cop might still have borne him had been thoroughly and deservedly erased by this latest debacle. Gordon had no reason to think him anything other than a drunken idiot, and Bruce knew it was best for everyone if it stayed that way. Still, it stung, to know that one of the best people in the city and one of the few men he considered a friend thought he was an apathetic moron who spent his life in a money-lined bubble.

The look Gordon had given him as he left, being towed unwillingly by Jack and Martins, had punctured the last bubble of hope he'd been holding out that the commissioner might be able to see the real Bruce. Gordon clearly hadn't forgotten the shell-shocked child he'd done his best to comfort more than twenty years ago, but he had just as clearly given up on finding any of the parents' compassion in the son. Even from behind the thick glasses perched low on his nose, the look had been forceful and eloquent.

_What a waste._

At that moment, Bruce would have given almost anything to be able to scream the truth at his retreating back. This wasn't a new feeling. A few times, he had been on the brink of revealing the man behind the mask, but he'd always pulled himself back. Gordon didn't want to know who Batman was. Knowing would do him no good. Knowing would only put him and his family in even more danger, and that, Bruce would not and could not do.

So Bruce was left to suffer in silence, stewing in a vicious brew of his own thoughts as Martins set about making an idiot of himself, helped along by Jack and copious amounts of alcohol.

"So what do'ya think of the place?" Martins asked a little too loudly, interrupting Bruce from his seething pool of misery. Bruce glanced around, coolly assessing the overstated décor. The Prism was an apt name for the place; Swarovski crystals hung in glossy clumps, spilling off every available surface like some kind of bizarre grape. The entire place was filled with cut glass, velvet, and discreetly placed lights, and the overall effect was mildly blinding, bordering epilepsy-inducing.

"It's nice," he said finally, his voice carefully affable. "Don't think I've been here before." He took a sip of the wine Martins had ordered for him, silently noting the cut crystal goblet it was served in. Good god, was all of their tableware sparkly and faceted?

"Yeah, it's good," Martins agreed blandly, taking another massive gulp of the ridiculously expensive garnet-colored wine in his glass. "Cost me a arm an' a leg to get a table here on such short notice. Only the best for my old friend and his girl though," he smirked, raising his glass to Bruce, who tried to look flattered. Jack giggled coyly. Bruce made up his mind not to pull punches the next time Batman and Joker fought.

"I handled it though," he boasted, leering at Jack, a.k.a. Jaclyn. "Certainly got rid of those cops."

_For which I will never forgive you, _Bruce mentally snarled.

"I bet even Batman himself couldn't have handled it better," Martins guffawed.

"Oh really?" Jack breathed, looking almost grotesquely interested, and proceeded to flirt outrageously with the delighted-looking Martins.

Sham though he knew it was, Bruce was in agony the entire time, as though the chair he was sitting on had been covered in a bed of hot coals. Although, considering his training, embers might have been easier to endure than this. Jack was coming perilously close to letting something vital slip, and there was nothing he could do about it that wouldn't be twice as conspicuous.

_That would just be the icing on one big, disastrous cake of an evening_, he groaned._ I'm in a hand basket, on my way down a road paved with good intentions. Guess where I'm going?_

Thankfully, a distraction arrived for all three of them in the form of a thoroughly sour-faced waiter who glided up to the table to take their orders.

"Just give me whatever's the most expensive," Martins yawned, tossing the menu at him. The waiter caught it deftly, his expression of cultured distaste not budging an inch.

"Very good, sir. And for you?"

"I'll have what he's having," Bruce muttered absently, too busy glaring at Jack.

_Might as well make a show of it,_ the clown decided.

"Oh, I'll just have a salad," he giggled throatily. "Need to watch my figure."

_I'm going to kill him, I'm going to kill him, I'm going to kill him, I'm going to kill him...well, maybe not kill. Maim. __**Painfully**__._

The next ten minutes were every bit as agonizing as before, but at least, Bruce reflected, Martins and Jack were no longer discussing anything Batman-related. This made it possible for him to mostly tune them out, in favor of planning _exactly_ what he could do to his erstwhile lover that would be excruciatingly painful but not fatal. For a man with Batman's training, there was a lot.

His next moment of panic would come when the dour-looking waiter swept up to their table, bearing a number of enormous and promising-looking porcelain platters. Bruce, who could happily have eaten a buffalo, fork optional, was disappointed to see that the restaurant subscribed to the 'miniscule portions, giant plate' school of thought, but quickly realized he had bigger problems when a similar platter was placed in front of the cross-dressing Joker.

_Oh hell, he's going to have to take off the scarf…_

Bruce stared at him with the eyes of someone watching a leopard attack in slow motion as he unwound the thin red scarf, each motion precise and graceful. As each layer was unwrapped, his anxiety only increased. What would Martins think when he saw that the infamous Bruce Wayne's latest conquest had had some less than conventional cosmetic surgery?

The last fold fell away, and Bruce braced himself for the outcry that would surely accompany the sight of the scars. It never came.

Bruce fought to keep his jaw from dropping, and after several seconds of internal struggle, managed to compose his face into something other than the blatant astonishment he was feeling. He still couldn't tear his eyes away from Jack's face though.

The scars were gone. Not merely covered over with makeup, but gone, as if no knife had ever touched his face.

_How can that be? _Bruce wondered, unable to stop staring._ I __**know**__ those scars are real, I've touched them, kissed them..._

Noticing his scrutiny, Jack smiled sweetly, toying with the heavily faceted crystal handle of his fork.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" he asked, voice sugary enough to attract ants. "You look like someone just told you the Joker's after you!"

"What an awful thought," Martins shuddered, taking another long pull of wine. "I dunno what I'd do if that lunatic was after me. Leave the country, probably." Jack's lips quirked, almost imperceptibly.

"Yeah, that would be awful," Bruce said lightly, his voice carefully neutral. "But on the other hand, given everything Joker's done, I'd hate to see what Batman does to the Joker if he catches up with him first." The faintest edge of threat in his voice did not escape Jack's attention.

"Eh, I s'pose," Martins shrugged with apparent unconcern, sawing at his steak. "Guess he'd deserve it."

"Definitely," Bruce growled, stabbing with unnecessary violence at his own pathetically tiny portion of filet mignon. "People should pay for what they've done." He was thinking not only of Harley and everything Jack had yet to explain to him, but of Rachel as well - the first time he'd thought of her in days, he realized with a stab of guilt. Then Jack surprised him by speaking.

"Oh, I don't know," the Clown Prince said lightly, laying the fork down next to his untouched plate with exaggerated care. "Sometimes things happen that...ya don't intend."

"Such as?" Bruce asked with forced politeness. Martins, too busy with his steak, did not notice the pitched, sub-verbal battle being fought across the table.

It was a moment before Jack replied, and when he did, his tone was careful.

"One of my exes."

"Who?" Bruce growled. He knew bloody well who, but damned if he was letting Jack get off easily for this one.

"His name was...Harvey," the clown said finally. He could see by the flicker of Bruce's eyes, almost black in his anger, that he'd understood what Jack was getting at. "Harvey Quinze. Obsessive type. Caused a lotta trouble with my last boyfriend," he said with careful emphasis, chocolate-colored eyes never leaving Bruce's face. "I told 'im it was over, but he just refused to believe it. Even when I started dating someone else, he refused to let it go. Started pulling stunts to attract my attention, even threatened my new boyfriend. Ended up in prison eventually," he shrugged, still gazing fixedly at Bruce. Bruce stared back, trying to pry the truth out of him by sight alone.

_Did you really have nothing to do with that robbery? Why should I believe you?_

"Well, that's nice," Martins mumbled from around a mouthful of meat, clearly not listening to a word his friend's date was saying. He even chewed like a camel, Jack realized with perverse delight, his jaw shifting back and forth and his rubbery lips smacking wetly.

"So, you never did tell me how you met my Brucey," Jack purred, leaning forward over his untouched plate. All of Bruce's grudging benefit-of-the-doubt vanished in an instant.

"Jaclyn…" he murmured warningly. Jack's lips twisted and Bruce was certain that he alone could see the effort it was taking him not to burst out into hysterical hyena yips of laughter.

Jack had apparently touched on a subject Martins could really get his teeth into; for the first time all evening, he turned his attention away from his wine.

"Well, it was at Princeton," he slurred, gesturing with his fork. "Bruce here was kind of a stick in the mud, and I figured, well, us upper crust gotta stick together, so I decided to show him a good time, started making him go to a few parties, leave that badger den of a dorm once in a while..."

_Yes, you did,_ Bruce thought bitterly, glaring at his braised vegetables as though auditioning for a remake of _Firestarter. You couldn't just leave me alone..._

"...Oh, we had some good times," Martins continued, waving his wineglass in what he probably imagined was a grand, expressive gesture, unaware of his boon companion's simmering anger. "We managed to hack the school's mainframe..."

_**I**__ did,_ Bruce mentally amended. _You sat there and got drunk, and got us caught. That was what finally got us expelled._

"Then there was that thing with the octopus..." Martins paused to take a sip of wine.

"Tell me more," Jack breathed, ignoring the look Bruce was giving him.

_Keep this up, and you're a dead clown._

An ordinary person's train of thought might have been that since Bruce was ticked off already, it might be a good idea to stay quiet, and maybe by the time this was over, he would have calmed down a bit. Jack's train of thought had gone on a rambling detour and ended up on a different track entirely. If Batty was already on the verge of breaking his one rule, he figured, then he might as well enjoy what time he had before his boyfriend-nemesis lost it completely. And hearing a humiliating college story would definitely be enjoyable.

Martins needed no encouragement.

"So we're trying to find this party a friend of ours is throwing, to celebrate the end of the semester," he chuckled, his voice too loud. "And her apartment's on Henge Road and the cab took us to Menge Road instead, so we go to this other party, thinking it's hers. And this crazy little English major's in the kitchen with a dead octopus while 'er friends are drinkin', working on her final exam in Modern Poetry or some other crap class. Thinks she'll get extra points if she writes a sonnet about the sea using octopus ink, or something like that, so she's got a bunch of friends over and she's cutting up this octopus!" He waved his hands, trying to convey the sheer bizarreness of the situation as his twenty-one-year-old, half-drunk college self undoubtedly found it. "This whole dead octopus, that she got from a seafood place or something! Only she didn't know what she was doin', so the ink sac exploded all over the table, and she didn't have any latex gloves, so she's got these socks on her hands and a dead octopus on the floor and ink everywhere and she's panicking and there are people everywhere screamin' an' drinkin' and we're both covered in ink, and…and…" His voice trailed off, lost in the depths of the wineglass. Bruce seized his chance and held on.

"Look at the time," he interjected quickly, glancing down at the wristwatch he wasn't wearing. "I promised Jaclyn I'd have her home by ten, and it's getting late, must be pressing on..."

Martins made as if to protest, but Bruce refused to give him the chance.

"It's been a _lovely_ evening," he lied, seizing his coat and yanking Jack to his feet, "but we must be getting back, goodbye, good night, I'll call you sometime..."

It took a few moments for Howard Martins to shake himself out of his stupor, moments that Bruce used to forcefully propel Jack towards the door. He was on the brink of following when Martins called him back.

"Hey, Bruce..."

The unmasked Batman turned back to his semi-incoherent acquaintance, fighting not to let his fury and impatience show. Howard looked, inexplicably, hopeful.

"Yeah?"

"If you break up with this one too, can I have 'er?"

Bruce stared at him, the expression in his eyes beyond description, although his features remained impassive.

"I think she might be a bit much for you to handle," he said finally, before exiting as quickly as he could.

_That was __**beyond**__ bizarre. If I never have to experience anything like that again, I'll…I'll…_ What could he possibly promise that would be suitable collateral for not having to suffer another evening like the one he'd just survived?

Jack was waiting for him outside the entrance, lounging against the wall in the small wedge of shadow where the overtly ornate facade of Prism turned back into dirty brick. Bruce stalked toward him, fighting to keep his face composed, until he was close enough to yank Jack into the small access alley that ran along the side of the building. Once they were safely out of sight, he spun his boyfriend around and shoved him, hard, against the grime-caked brick. Bruce could feel the jar of the impact rattling through the bones of his hands. It must have hurt. Jack grinned.

"If you've got anything," Bruce snarled, "any reason I shouldn't drag you straight back to Arkham right now and leave you trussed up on the steps for them to find in the morning, then I'd advise you to tell me, _now._"

Jack smiled blithely back at him, a look of almost childish cheer drifting across his carefully made-up features, before giving his furious boyfriend a quick peck on the lips.

"_That doesn't cut it!"_

"Really now, Bat-Brat," Jack pouted, choosing not to notice as the enraged billionaire's lips drew into a snarl at his use of the pet-name, "all I wanted to do was, uh, learn a little more about you. You _fascinate_ me," he said, glibly honest, "and how else was I s'pose to learn 'bout your time at college?"

"By risking everything on a drunken idiot?" Bruce rumbled. Jack shrugged, utterly unapologetic.

"You weren't about to, uh, tell me, and I didn't give anything away, _did_ I?"

Objectionable as his methods might be, Bruce had bigger fish to fry.

"What. About. _Harley?_" the unmasked Batman snarled. Instantly, Jack's whole demeanor changed.

"I meant what I said, Bats," he said, suddenly serious. "I told Harles it was over, and she should, uh, _scram_. But," he added, a note of feral fury rising in his voice, "instead of listening to me like a _sane -_" his lips quirked with the irony of it "- person, she, ah, chose to strike off on her own. I _do_ want to see her taken down, Bats," he growled, eyes intense. "You can help me make it happen. Or," he grinned, "you can waste time gettin' pissed at me. Which'll it be?"

"I'll...help, I suppose," Bruce conceded, reluctantly, some of his fury ebbing. Getting Harley off the streets and out of their lives could only be a good thing, and Jack was the one who was most likely to know how to accomplish that with a minimum of bloodshed. Yet again, he had no choice.

"Oh, good," Jack said brightly. "I'll be off then, I've got some stuff I need to see to tonight..."

"Wha- wait!" Bruce exclaimed, darting after him. "_I'm not done with you!_" But Jack was too quick.

"See ya, Bats!"

And he skipped off into the darkness, still dressed as a woman. Bruce stared after him until the black jaws of the alley had swallowed him down.

_One of these days, I'm going to break my rule._

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Can I trust you? Should you trust me too?  
Through the mist your lover is beckoning,  
Comes that moment of reckoning -  
Faces change, even smiles grow strange.  
And we all have so many faces,  
The real self often erases;  
Enticing lies flicker through our eyes.

~ _The Riddle, _**The Scarlet Pimpernel**

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_**A/N: **__Now that I finally have this up, I'm going to take a few days to reformat the errors in this story and to go through and catch up on the fics of the incredible J-Horror Girl and Lauralot, and then it'll be back to regularly scheduled updates. Again, I'm so sorry, and thank you for sticking through this. I won't abandon it like that again._


	28. Relationships Are Messy

_**A/N:**__ Sorry this chapter is so much later than anticipated. My grandpa died about two weeks ago, and getting everything in order has taken some time. Harold Smith was the best grandpa anyone could've asked for. He was technically my step-grandpa, but I think I was about 12 or 13 before I actually realized that, and as far as I was concerned, he was always just my Papa. He was an __**amazing**__ trumpet player - he once played with Benny Goodman, and taught as a professor of music for years. He loved fast cars and basset hounds, and I don't think I ever went to my grandparents' house to find that he didn't have a box of Neapolitan ice cream in the freezer or a box of chocolates hidden in his sock drawer. He'll be dearly missed. Rest in peace, Papa._

_Now, on a lighter note... as you've probably noticed, I made some changes to the story format. I reinserted the spacers, and every chapter now begins and ends with song lyrics, a quote, or something similar. The quote can be my commentary on a given situation - or a hint of foreshadowing - or, in the case of the first chapter's final quote, just too good a bit of wordplay to pass up._

_Anyways...read, review, and enjoy!_

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You've been checking on my facts,  
And I admit I have been lax  
In double-screening what I say -  
It wasn't funny anyway.

~ _I Stand Corrected, _Vampire Weekend

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Bruce had by no means forgiven Jack by the next morning, and his temper was not at all helped by the fact that Alfred had flatly and politely refused to allow him to take to the streets as Batman, after his injuries at the zoo - _which was all Harley's fault,_ he reminded himself, temper flaring again, like coals in a furnace.

Speaking of the psychotic little rock concert refugee...

Just because the powers that be (namely, his CEO and his butler) had decided he _really _shouldn't be out as the Caped Crusader, that didn't necessarily mean that he couldn't do _some_ work as Batman, and the debacle at the restaurant had left a bad taste in his mouth and an itchiness in his limbs that just exercising wouldn't erase. The idea of staying cooped up in the penthouse all night had been unbearable.

So he'd opted instead for cooped up in the Bat Bunker, researching Dr. Harleen Quinzel and prying every scrap of information on Harley Quinn out of the police servers. And the more he'd read, the less he liked what he saw.

Her childhood, from what he'd dug up, was less than charming, but nothing unduly special; born in Brooklyn - _well, that explains the accent_ - dad in and out of jail, dead-beat brother, raised by her mom, she'd proven intelligent and athletic enough to pick up a full scholarship to Gotham State where she'd surprised everyone by studying psychology.

Most of this came as no real surprise to Bruce. Just another hard-working kid trying to make a better life for herself. Laudable, in any other circumstance, but nothing new. No, the only real shocker was the tapes of the Arkham therapy sessions he'd dug up.

They started off innocently enough; a capable but nervous medical resident, eager to prove herself, vs. the charming but psychotic sociopath. By the third or fourth session between the Joker and Dr. Quinzel though, Bruce was seeing a rapid downhill trend. The kind of downhill trend that ends with a crashed sled, cracked ice, lots of screaming, and a trip to the emergency room.

He brought up a new recording on the computer screen and hit play, eyes narrowing. The now-familiar bare steel room jittered into focus, Quinzel behind the desk as usual, no longer even bothering to pretend to take notes, the Joker straitjacketed in front of her.

"So shall we begin?" Quinzel asked brightly. Her patient's eyes flickered, and he grinned, a low, wolfish smile that was pure Joker.

It surprised Bruce, to learn that he could tell the difference, even without the paint. But this was definitely the Joker. Quinzel had never seen Jack.

"If you li_**k**_e," came the reply, studiedly light despite the intensity in those dark eyes. In the jittery black and white footage, his eyes looked like nothing so much as black pits, darker even than when makeup ringed them. The on-screen Harleen couldn't drag her own eyes away.

"Oh, I do like it," she told him breathlessly, blushing a little when she caught the look Joker was giving her. "I like our sessions a _lot_."

"Are you _flirting _with me, doc?" Joker smirked ferally, all eyeteeth and malice. Dr. Quinzel grinned back, the too-wide smile of a schoolgirl talking to her football hero crush.

"And what if I am?"

"Well," Joker breathed, eyes alight with ghoulish glee, "I'd say you were kind of a _funny _doctor. And you know how I love jokes."

Both of them laughed then, Harleen's bubblegum giggles mingling with the Joker's hysterical hyena yips. Bruce shut off the recording, fury burning through his veins.

Even from the start, she'd been after Joker, and Joker alone.

And Joker had encouraged her.

Around 6 a.m., Bruce finally cracked and went back to the penthouse, unable to remain trapped underground any longer. He knew, _knew _he should sleep, but with the video clips and hacked files still buzzing around his head, he also knew that sleeping would be impossible. The thought did nothing to calm him. Even more annoyingly, the stitches had torn out of the wounds Harley had given him the night before, sending a thin trickle of blood down his torso and only adding to his fury and agitation.

Which brought him to this morning: bleeding, pissed off, exhausted (running on less than two hours of sleep for the past 56 hours, even for him that was bad, he really should rest), and just _itching_ to get his hands around the throat of a certain clown, or his jester-obsessed henchgirl. Either or, he wasn't picky.

He was ensconced in one of the armchairs at the far end of his bedroom when he heard the particularly annoying, high-pitched buzz that signaled a guest at the door. He ignored it. _Better things to do._ Like finish re-stitching this cut, for instance. At least he was doing a better job of it this time...

It wasn't until it rang again, humming like an irate wasp, that he groaned and glanced at the security screen on his laptop in time to see Jack, still dressed as a woman, glaring up at the camera, foot tapping impatiently. He briefly considered leaving the clown down there - _serve him right for that stunt last night with Martins _- but finally, sighing, jabbed the button to buzz him in before turning back to needle and suture.

He heard Jack come in.

"Your _girlfriend_ tried to kill me two nights ago," Bruce said, not looking up from where he continued to stitch up the cut. "I hope you're pleased."

"Well, that's _funny_," Jack informed him, sounding anything but pleased. "_Your_ girlfriend tried to kill me _last_ night."

_That_ got Bruce's attention.

"Yeah," Jack growled, seeing the unmasked Batman look up, his expression startled, "your, uh, little Italian _bon__**bon **_and a coupla big n' uglies found me when I was high-tailin' it home, and she made it very clear that she considers you to be her, ah, _private_ property."

Now that Bruce looked at him, he did indeed have a few new contusions under the women's makeup; a thick, ugly storm-colored bruise above his eyebrow, a heavy cut across his chin, and another bruise at the corner of his mouth, where the frayed edges of carefully applied latex had begun to show. _Well, that explains the lack of scars last night._ Bruce was on the brink of feeling quite alarmed...until he noticed a steadily growing stain, scarlet against the bottle-green leather, oozing out the seam of the jacket pocket. He would have bet his Batarangs that it contained a freshly used knife.

"What did you do to them?" he asked, suspicion rising like yeast in the pit of his stomach.

"Nothing much," Jack smirked, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "They're still _alive,_ anyway..."

"Dammit, Jack," Bruce growled, going back to re-stitching the cut, "how the hell am I going to explain this one?" _As if I didn't have enough to deal with._

"Relax, Bats," Jack sulked. "Your little _fling_ didn't get hurt, and the uglies'll live. None of 'em had a clue who I _really_ was, or, uh, I doubt they woulda left it at a simple beating. Thought I was just some dumb broad out at night, albeit a well-armed dumb broad. No, _I'__**d-duh**_," he drawled, "be, uh, just a _little_ more concerned as to why your 'nothing _ser_ious' girlfriend is, uh, tryin' to kill any woman _you_ show up in public with."

"Wish I knew," Bruce muttered, rubbing his temples. "I mean, she's evidently keeping tabs on me, she's stalking everyone I spend time with...who _does_ that? She..."

His voice trailed off. That actually sounded a lot like Batman. Jack evidently thought the same.

"I s'pose _you'd_ know all about it then?" Jack growled, yanking the remains of the latex off with sharp, deliberate movements. Whatever adhesive had held them on left red, inflamed trails across the scars, standing out sharply against the rest of his carefully made-up face and lending his features a strangely demonic aspect.

"No!" Bruce snapped, feeling the space behind his eyes begin to pulse with a building migraine. "I have no idea why she'd be after you. I thought Beatrix was just another girl," he groaned, running a hand across his eyes. "Albeit a psychotic one..."

"Beatrix _what_? Beatrix Kiddo, by any chance?" the cross-dressing clown asked derisively. "Should I check an' see if the, uh, Deadly Viper Assassination Squad is after me?"

"No, Beatrix Guidicelli," Bruce mumbled, unsure of how to handle his boyfriend's sarcasm.

"_Guidicelli_?" Jack asked, for once completely stunned. "Oh god, _please_ tell me you're not serious!"

"Why?" Bruce asked, suspicion edging his voice. "How do you know her?"

"Tell me, Bats…how carefully did ya research the mob when you decided to, ah, put on the pointy ears?"

"Pretty thoroughly, I thought," the young billionaire answered, brows knit. He'd focused on the immediate Falcone family, of course, given he was going up against them, but he'd scanned through the long lists of extended family and relatives, and he was quite certain that there were no Beatrixes running any major cities. "Why? What's her connection to the mob?"

"Guess what the maiden name of your Miss Beatrix's _mother_ is."

He didn't wait for Bruce to answer.

"Viti," Jack said grimly. "Her Auntie Carla runs the Chicago Vitis. Carla Falcone marries Lucio Viti, Viti's sister marries Carlos Guidicelli, and we, uh, we get little _Beatrix._" He looked livid, and Bruce, heart sinking like the Titanic, couldn't blame him. But Jack wasn't done yet.

"Not only that, but she's related to, uh, 'Gentleman' Johnny Marcone, in Chicago," the Joker's alter ego informed him snidely. "One big, happy Mafioso family."

"When she said she was in town to visit some old friends…" Bruce groaned.

"She meant some mafia friends," Jack told him unapologetically. "Yep. Congratulations Bats, you're datin' a mob boss's niece."

For a moment, Bruce simply looked dumbstruck, before he found his voice again.

"Holy shit," he gulped. This was bad.

"Gold," Jack replied rather ambiguously from somewhere to his right.

"…what?"

"Gold," Jack repeated, smirking. "Aztecs believed it was, ah, the feces of the gods. So, holy shit."

It took a moment for Bruce's mind to make the switch, but when it did, he groaned.

"Bad joke," he growled, rubbing his forehead. "Very bad joke."

"Course, the Aztecs also believed the sun ate human hearts for breakfast," Jack mused aloud, clearly not listening to Bruce at all. "So I dunno just how, uh, accurate their view of things really was. And the Egyptians believed gold was the flesh of the gods, so one or the other has to be wrong…unless the gods are _cannibalistic_? Which I'm not ruling out," he mused, rubbing at his left scar. "Not in this city, anyway."

Bruce shut out the clown's inane babble, and finished stitching the wound. Then something Jack had said earlier struck him.

_Trying to kill any woman you show up in public with..._

Oh hell. Beatrix and Vicki, that night at the Ocelot...

Pinching the bridge of his nose against the steadily growing migraine, Bruce dialed the Gotham Globe, and after sweet-talking his way through several receptionists, managed to get put through to Miss Victoria Vale.

"Hey, um, Vicki?" he muttered, squeezing his shut against the headache pounding behind his temples, "you might want to stay home for a few days, okay? Never mind why," he groaned, watched by an amused Joker. What reason could he possibly give? "Um...I saw that your partner, Mark Myerman, got hurt or something. I don't want anything to happen to you, especially now that you're working alone."

"Well, that's very sweet and all, Bruce," she told him firmly, with the tone of a mother explaining to a fussy child that yes, she really did need to leave _right now,_ dear, "but I've got a new partner, Alex Knox, and I've got a job to do. I'll be _fine._"

"Okay, just... be careful then," he muttered, wishing he could think just a little more clearly. "Bye." He hung up, suddenly painfully aware of the chaos hanging over him like a thunderhead.

His alter ego was being stalked by his arch-nemesis-turned-boyfriend's ex-shrink and kind-of ex-girlfriend in an attempt to win said boyfriend back, not knowing that they were secretly dating, while his other alter ego's just-for-show ex-girlfriend, who was conveniently related to his enemies, was baying for blood after seeing them together while the abovementioned boyfriend was cross-dressing and borrowing the name of his teacher-turned-enemy, and did he mention that on top of this he was expected to keep up a double life as a bubble-headed billionaire playboy/businessman and as a crime-fighting vigilante who was currently the subject of a city-wide manhunt?

Oh god. His life sounded like one of those bad soap operas. He should just check himself into Arkham now and save Alfred the trouble. He wondered if they carried straitjackets in his size.

How _exactly_ had his life gone from dangerous but relatively stable to spinning wildly out of orbit? No other vigilante superheroes he'd ever heard of had to deal with anything remotely like this. All Superman had to worry about was kryptonite and Lex Luthor!

_Well, Superman isn't __**dating**__ Lex Luthor, is he? _the small and oft-ignored voice of reason asked. _A romantic relationship with your villain might make things a little more complicated…_

The Joker. It always came back to the Joker.

_Well, you can say one thing for having Jack around_, Bruce thought wryly. _Life is never going to be __**boring**__._

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"All right," Bruce muttered, rubbing his forehead. He and Jack had been talking for close to two hours, and had accomplished nothing except fraying their tempers and nerves even further. "First order of business is getting rid of Harley Quinn. The question is how." He tilted his head back, eyes closed. "She's the Joker's accomplice," he mused quietly. "That's a given fact at this point. Maybe I could get her arrested, get her out of our hair for a while…"

"Wouldn't work," Jack said immediately.

"And why not?" Bruce asked him, opening his eyes into an annoyed frown.

"'_Cause_ she's my accomplice. She'll be found insane and sent to Arkham, and security there is a, uh…it's a bad joke. She'll be out in a _week_."

"It took _you_ two months," Bruce pointed out, feeling distinctly uncharitable. To his surprise, Jack just smirked.

"Well, of course it did. Bat-boy needed some time to cool down between rounds, or he would've about had a conniption fit."

"Nice to know you have such a high opinion of me," Bruce snapped.

"What, you'd've, uh, preferred I broke out immediately?" Jack asked coolly. "In, out, and back to blowing shit up?"

"No," Bruce growled, "that's _not_ what I meant."

"Seems to be an awful lot of that not-meaning crap going around," Jack hissed. Bruce's eyebrows rose.

"_Meaning?_"

"Well, seeing as you haven't got the balls to jus' _tell_ Beatrix it's over," the unmasked clown snarled.

"Um, excuse me?" Bruce asked in a voice that could have chilled the Sahara. "While we're on the subject of old girlfriends…why haven't you _just told_ Harley it's over? I'm not the only one here with a homicidal ex. Besides," he added as Jack's eyes narrowed, "it's not that easy when she's already hiring assassins!"

"You _do_ attract the weirdoes, Bats," Jack sneered. "Whose ex-girlfriend hires fuckin' _assassins_?"

"_I _attract weirdoes?" Bruce fumed. "Let me tell you a fun little story about a pot and a kettle, _Joker_. Besides," he snarled, "If I attract weirdoes, what does that make you?"

"Still saner than the Batman," Jack snapped. Bruce laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound.

"Last I checked, I wasn't the Arkham escapee," he said, lip curling.

"Give it time," Jack gritted out. "You're just as nuts as I am, if not _more_ so. And for the last time," he snapped, grabbing his green leather jacket off the bed where he'd dropped it, "I'm. Not. Fucking. CRAZY!"

And with that, he stormed out, leaving Bruce with a growing sense of regret and a steadily mounting migraine.

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To his intense surprise, it would be only a few hours later that Jack showed up again, lounging against the Plexiglas balcony rail and looking displeased but resigned.

"I didn't think you'd be back this soon," Bruce told him, slipping through the plate-glass door and joining him. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

"Yeah, well, I didn't either," Jack shrugged moodily. He'd changed back into his usual battered jeans and faded T-shirt, Bruce noticed. He was grateful; Jack in a dress had been fraying what was left of his already tenuous hold on sanity. "But we can't really afford the time for a nice drawn-out fight, we'll have to make due with a shortened version."

Bruce nodded his silent acquiescence, noting how pale Jack had been under all the makeup, and the way he was standing, shoulders hunched even higher than usual. He looked exhausted and gaunt. _Looks like Batman's not the only one at the breaking point, _Bruce thought.

"Are you okay?" he asked suddenly. Jack jerked as though shocked, and the haggard look vanished.

"Of course I'm okay. Why do ya ask?" he demanded.

"I dunno," Bruce muttered. "You just looked...distracted."

"Well, I'm not," Jack declared. "I'm peachy-keen and perfectly fine." His face was set, as though daring Batman to contradict him. Bruce just shrugged.

"Fair enough."

"So," Jack sighed, pasting a grin back onto his scarred face, "where were we?"

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When a few more hours' increasingly irrational discussion failed to yield any results, Bruce and Jack decided they may as well just sleep on it. It was only the early afternoon, but both of them had been up all night, and Bruce knew that with the double threat of Beatrix and Harley, tonight was going to be rough. Sleep was definitely needed.

While Jack did whatever clowns did to get ready for bed, Bruce ducked out into the main penthouse to look for Alfred. He found him in the kitchen, reading the social gossip page of the Gotham Globe with an expression of wry amusement.

"You do have a knack for being in the wrong place," Alfred said aloud, hearing Bruce enter the room. He held up the page of newsprint, and even from across the room, Bruce could see the photos of himself and Jack, alias Jaclyn al Ghul.

"Yeah, I know," Bruce groaned. "Alfred, d'you s'pose you could tell the Merlings that I won't be having dinner with them this evenings, I'm so very sorry, etc.?"

"Of course, sir," Alfred told him warmly. "Should I take this as sign that you've decided to stop trying to find out _exactly _what Batman's limits are, and actually get some sleep?"

"Yeah," Bruce muttered. "Thank you, Alfred. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"With all due respect, sir," the British butler chuckled, "neither do I."

Alfred waited until Bruce had nodded his thanks and vanished from the room, then picked up the house phone. The Merlings, one of Gotham's oldest families, would be disappointed that Bruce had ducked out of their dinner invitation yet again, but that was all right. He knew Bruce and Jack had had no luck coming up with solutions to their - ahem - girlfriend problems, and at this point, sleeping was probably the best thing either of them could be doing.

It was probably a sign of the times, he reflected, dialing, when your employer and his…love interest…were discussing which of the women trying to kill them was the most dangerous. He wondered if Miss Moneypenny ever got this problem with Bond's girls. He wished he could call her, see if she had any advice on dealing with distraught and dangerous sweethearts. Master Wayne, he had a feeling, would be needing all the help he could get.

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He ought to be more worried; Bruce knew that. He had a murderous shrink and mob boss's daughter after him, after all. That would be enough to scare most anyone. Hell, Beatrix had attacked the Joker - unknowingly, admittedly, but that was still like draping yourself with dead goats and running through tiger territory. He should have been, at _least,_ apprehensive. Maybe it was just the exhaustion catching up to him, but as he changed into a pair of black sweatpants, Bruce couldn't feel too worried.

Then again, he thought, dark eyes falling on the clown already snoozing in bed, maybe it was because the Joker was on his side this time.

_What a weird thought_, he mused, slipping into bed. Jack stirred lightly, sandy hair falling over his eyes, but didn't wake. _The Joker's on my side, and in my bed. How in hell did that happen?_

Unbidden, an old memory, one that he hadn't thought about in years, sprang into his mind. His mother used to keep cats. No, _keep_ was the wrong word. Feed. They'd come to the garden, half-starved and flea-infested waifs that skittered away as soon as little Bruce tried to touch them, and his mother would put out bowls of milk and cat food, caring for them until they were sleek and glossy. His father had protested, but Martha had laughed it off, telling him that she was only feeding the poor creatures, of _course_ they wouldn't be coming inside, dear. But the cats had a way of purring and twining themselves around your ankles, tripping you up just long enough for them to dart through the door, quick as a minnow, and perch on a couch or armchair, giving you a look that said very clearly, 'What? You're imagining things. I've been here all this time.'

Jack, Bruce thought, was very much like a cat.

_Less than a month, and I'm already used to him,_ he thought wryly, pulling the heavy feather-down comforter up to cover both of them. The thought made him a bit uneasy - getting used to having a murderous clown in the house? - but he shrugged it off. _At least he doesn't leave fur on the rug._

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Bruce was woken around 6 p.m. by the ringing of his cell phone. He groaned under his breath and swiped it off the nightstand, silently cursing at whatever dared interrupt his sleep.

His bad mood lasted until he saw the name on the caller I.D.

Then it got worse.

_Beatrix._

He debated letting it ring itself out, then grudgingly, as though afraid the phone might snap at him, flipped it open.

"Hi, Beatrix," he muttered, rubbing a speck of sleep-grit out of the corner of his eye. He winced as her throaty voice came pouring out of the phone's tinny speaker.

"Darling! It's so good to hear your voice! So, I saw you on the news last night..."

"Look, Beatrix," Bruce interrupted, "it's a good thing you called. I..." he took a deep breath. "I just don't think this is working out. I'm sorry."

To his disconcertment, the Italian belle didn't even pause for breath.

"Oh, nonsense, Bruce, darling," she assured him. He winced at the endearment. "I simply adore you, and I think it's been going very well. You just need a little time to get used to the idea."

"Look," he sighed, "it really just _isn't_ working, we have nothing in common..."

"You're tired," Beatrix told him, cutting him off in mid-flow. "You're stressed, and no wonder after yesterday, you don't know what you're talking about, so get some sleep..."

_I was,_ Bruce wanted to snarl, _until you called me..._ Instead, he settled for making an effort to be heard over her verbal vomit of reassuring noises.

"Look, Beatrix, really, I think..."

"We'll talk about this tomorrow," she said firmly, and before Bruce could reply, he heard the distinct _click_ of her phone being hung up.

"Dammit," he muttered, flipping the cellphone shut and setting it back on the nightstand. This had to _end_.

"What'sa matter, Bats?" Jack yawned, stirring slightly to his right. "Wake up on the wrong side of the cave?"

"No," Bruce told him, looking disgruntled. "Beatrix called."

Jack groaned and dragged himself upright. "_Again_?"

"We _have_ to find a way to get rid of her," Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair so that it stood up in soft, erratic clumps. "I thought we could ignore her till we dealt with Harley, but this is just getting ridiculous."

He felt Jack gently touch the arch of his cheekbone, fingers cool and soft, before stroking his hair with smooth, languid caresses, fingering the short, silky locks at the nape of his neck. Pressing as he knew the Beatrix situation was, he closed his eyes, and allowed himself to enjoy it. It had been a long time since someone had touched him with such un-erotic intimacy. Since he had allowed himself to be this _close_ to someone.

"And we do ridiculous _so_ well, don't we, Brucey?" Jack laughed softly, still playing with his hair. "Relax. She's after me, not you, so I'll just lay low for a while, and we'll find a way to deal with it. With everything."

"It won't be that easy," Bruce breathed, lost in the sensation of the Joker's fingers - murderer's fingers - caressing the point where short, dark hair gave way to the smoothly notched curve of his spine. "That, or _this._" Jack's scarred lips quirked, and Bruce knew that he understood exactly what _this_ meant.

"Of course it's gonna be tricky," the unmasked clown told Bruce, pressing a kiss to his jaw line. "If somethin's worthwhile, it's never _easy._"

"I didn't expect it would be _so_ hard," Bruce admitted, pulling Jack closer to him.

"An' d'you really think we would've kept it up this long if it _was _easy?" his arch-nemesis yawned, settling against his chest, his hair soft against Bruce's bare skin. "No no no, one of us would've lost interest or somethin'. It's no _fun_ when there's no challenge."

"Somehow," Bruce told him wryly, hand settling gently on his shoulder, "I don't think a challenge is something we'll ever be short of."

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There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.

~Nietzsche

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_**A/N: **__Harley's history is based on the Gotham Sirens comics, with a few adjustments of my own. Her session with Joker is based off Mad Love and Preludes & Knock-Knock Jokes._

_The Deadly Viper Assassination Squad is from Kill Bill, as is Beatrix Kiddo. 'Gentleman' Johnny Marcone is included as a nod for both J-Horror Girl and my friend Collin. Major points and Harley Quinn hugs for anyone who gets the reference!_

_The Aztecs really did believe gold was the feces of the gods, and Egyptians believed it was their flesh. Not sure how the two combined in my mind, but Joker's musing is the result._

_Both of the boys really did need sleep. Hallucinations and delusions usually start around 50 or 60 hours of sleep deprivation, and it just gets worse from there._

_Going back to the addition of the quotes bookending each chapter...if you have any ideas for songs or quotes to use, please let me know! Ones concerning Alfred are particularly appreciated, I'm having a bit of trouble finding any that suit him. Thanks, and as always, reviews are welcome!_


	29. That Feeling You Get

_**A/N: **__So I went to see the new Sherlock Holmes movie with one of my friends. As we were watching, she turned to me and muttered, "Two brilliant guys, one a nutcase, the other comparatively sane, dealing with an evil genius who had a hand in a gas-based attack using uber-epic technology. Victorian Batman much?" At which point I noticed that Sherlock Holmes in drag looks disturbingly like a cross-dressing Joker, right down to the smear of lipstick. I swear to god that was intentional..._

_Why yes, we do have one-track minds, why do you ask?_

_On that note...finally, a Dark Knight Rises trailer that isn't pure BB & TDK recap!_

_This chapter is mostly pure plot, but it sets up some fairly necessary elements for later. Next chapter will feature more of our favorite odd couple. Anyways, read review, and most of all, enjoy! _

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He had noticed that events were cowards: they didn't occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once.

~ Neil Gaiman

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December swept into Gotham City, bringing with it freezing rain, biting wind, and a new worry for Bruce, to add to his growing stack. This concern, while not as potentially life-threatening as Beatrix and Harley Quinn, was no easier to solve.

His problem was Christmas shopping.

His latest, non-mob related girlfriend (some model... Candy Walker, that was her name...) wouldn't be at all difficult. He could just get her some designer perfume or jewelry. Alfred wasn't terribly hard either; Bruce had already tracked down a bottle of the vintage wine he was fond of and had booked a first-class flight to London for him, so that he could visit his niece in January, as he always did. None the others on his list presented any problem. But what on earth was he supposed to get Jack?

Deciding what to get someone you'd been dating for just about a month was awkward anyway. And it wasn't exactly as though he could write in to Miss Manners and ask for advice, Bruce thought wryly. He somehow doubted that she'd have any experience in the proper protocol as far as shopping for a deranged clown with a passion for explosives.

It would have to be something practical, Bruce decided. Jack wasn't at all one to keep something that didn't have a definite use. The problem though was that anything the infuriating man needed, he already had. So what to get him?

Another purple suit? Bruce considered it briefly before deciding against it. Too boring, and besides, he didn't know what size it would have to be…or where to get one, for that matter. More paint? _Way _too boring. Knives would definitely be a very bad idea. Music? But he never seemed to want for that either, and he wouldn't know what type…

Bruce scowled. If only he had some way of getting in touch with Jack besides the times the grinning clown suddenly decided to show up. A Joker signal was looking like a better and better idea. It had been four days since his last, disastrous talk with Beatrix, and during that time, the Joker would appear for a few minutes at a time throughout the day, only to vanish again as soon as soon as Bruce tried to actually talk to him. And there was plenty to talk about. Beatrix had been oddly quiet, and Batman had been able to avoid Harley Quinn thus far, but that couldn't last forever, and Max Shreck was rapidly becoming almost as pressing a problem.

Bruce didn't like Shreck at the best of times; quite apart from how unpleasant the man himself was, his business practices were appalling. Bruce _knew_ that he had deals with the mob, even if Shreck was careful to cover his tracks, and Batman suspected but couldn't prove that he owned half the firetraps and tenements in the Narrows. Not to mention that a number of Shreck's manufacturing projects had the unpleasant habit of dumping toxic chemicals into the Gotham River...

The feeling, Bruce knew, was mutual. Shreck considered him nothing so much as a nosy little do-gooder of a rich brat, and during meetings, made a point of talking about how much better off Wayne Enterprises had been under William Earle. Thankfully, that was as far as he'd ever gone; he'd never seemed to suspect the reason for the rich brat act. Which was why his sudden interest made Bruce so nervous. Deplorable as the man might be, he was by no means stupid, and Bruce knew that if Max Shreck ever found out about the Batman connection, he was sunk.

For better or for worse, their two companies were stuck together; during Bruce's seven-year absence, Earle had signed a deal guaranteeing Shreck the right to sell Wayne Enterprise technology, much to the anger of Wayne himself. The connection had, at times, been useful - Lucius was using it to get a closer look at Shreck's records, for one - but Bruce's life had rather too much moral grey in it already, and he'd have been thrilled to have the chance to rid himself of Shreck for good.

Which was why he and Candy Walker were currently attending a fundraiser for a local art museum, a cause Bruce knew Shreck had championed in the past. Unfortunately, it was, he was told on arriving, an entirely wasted effort; Shreck had left after only an hour, claiming he had something at the office that needed finishing up.

_Dammit,_ Bruce thought, face arranged into a charming smile. Either Shreck knew he would be there (he hadn't been particularly discrete in buying tickets) and was avoiding him, or Max Shreck really did have something, probably an unpleasant something, he needed to attend to. Both options sucked.

_At least I don't have to host this one,_ he thought, accepting a delicate crystal flute of champagne that he had no intention of drinking. After what had happened at his fundraiser for Harvey Dent, Bruce wasn't sure he ever wanted to hold another party again; quite apart from the Joker showing up and dropping Rachel out a window, finding Williams and his latest girlfriend in his bed was enough to make him resolve to lock his bedroom door from now on. Not to mention that the party before that, his house had burned down...

Raising the glass to his lips without actually drinking anything, Bruce glanced around the museum. He'd never been here before, and was pleasantly surprised; instead of marble everywhere, which he'd always found a bit pretentious, the galleries were edged and floored in softly gleaming cherry or walnut, with comfortably overstuffed leather chairs every few feet. He wasn't remotely qualified to judge the artwork itself, but the decor put him in mind of a particularly tasteful living room. This was the kind of place his mother would have liked, he decided; Martha Wayne had been a great supporter of the arts. He made a mental note to make a large, anonymous donation.

"So are you going to stand in the corner all night, or actually talk to people?" Candy asked, dragging him out of his thoughts. Bruce gave her credit for being patient this far; she'd been fidgeting and tapping her foot since they arrived, clearly eager to be off socializing.

"Probably stand here all night," he admitted with a wry smile. Candy gave him an exasperated look and flounced off to find someone a little more socially inclined. Bruce couldn't blame her. He knew perfectly well that he wasn't the best of company; for every ex-girlfriend telling the tabloids how charming and attentive he was, there were at least two grumbling about how he would ignore them all evening. Which wasn't true - he made it a point to at least be as polite as possible - but he had absolutely no sense of romance, and very little patience for acquiring one. Add in the fact that he couldn't exactly tell them what he _really_ did with his time, and it was no wonder he came across as distant.

Eventually deciding he couldn't _really_ stay in the corner all evening, appealing as the prospect was, he ventured into the crowd...and regretted it almost immediately, after being pulled into a conversation from which he only extricated himself, with difficulty, a quarter of an hour later. _Guess I forgot how stubborn the upper crust can be, _he thought sardonically, ducking behind a large marble statue to avoid yet another wanted tête-à-tête. He'd hoped Vicki might be there, but unfortunately, that didn't seem to be the case. Even more unfortunately, Martins _was,_ and proceeded to spend a good chunk of the evening tailing Bruce around like an unwanted puppy. Which Bruce probably could have dealt with, except that every time he asked Martins, in a tone of increasing irritation, what he wanted, his old college roommate would give a very fake laugh and insist, "Nothing, nothing," in a tone that ground at Bruce's remaining shreds of sanity.

It wasn't until the young billionaire's fourth glass of undrunk champagne that he finally found out why.

"Hey, Bruce..." Howard inquired, as the unmasked Batman pretended to take a sip of the gold fizz. Wayne turned around, trying hard not to let his exasperation show.

"Yes?"

"Since you and Jaclyn obviously aren't going out anymore," Howard asked hopefully, gesturing at Candy, who was chatting animatedly to some sports star, "do you, uh... d'you think I could have 'er?"

It took Bruce a long moment to respond.

"If you can _find_ her," he finally ground out, his voice sardonic, "be my guest." Martins's face fell. Bruce couldn't bring himself to feel bad.

_Gonna kill that clown._

The evening failed to improve, creeping by in a haze of booze he had no intention of drinking, invitations he didn't mean to accept, and conversations he wanted no part of. After three more hours of increasingly torturous social interaction and sulky looks from Candy, Bruce finally decided he'd had enough.

Feeling remarkably unsatisfied by the entire evening, he made his excuses to the hostess and ducked out the door. With any luck, he could be home before nightfall and get in a decent night's work as Batman.

It was only when he got down to the street that he realized he'd forgotten to let Candy know he was leaving.

_Damn it._ He might _act_ like a chauvinistic pig as a way of maintaining his disguise, but he hated actually _being_ one, and forgetting about your girlfriend was definitely not something nice guys did.

Biting back a groan, Bruce flipped open his cell phone and found her number in his address book. It took her almost a full minute to pick up.

"Hey, uh, Candy?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I don't feel great. Little too much to drink, I guess. Think I might head home. D'you wanna leave now, or...?"

"Oh, no no no," she laughed, sugar-candy voice made tinny by the phone's speaker. "Go on home, Bruce, and get some rest, I'll be fine. I'll see you tomorrow, kay?"

_Well, she didn't seem too bothered,_ he thought wryly, stowing the phone back in his pocket and accepting his car keys from the valet. At least he no longer felt bad about leaving without her.

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Night was just falling when he arrived back at the penthouse. Alfred was nowhere to be seen, _but that not's unusual_, Bruce thought, moving to the window. God, but it was beautiful. The forty-foot windows afforded an unparalleled view over Gotham - which, really, had been a big part of the reason he'd chosen this building, Bruce reflected, watching the glowing tangerine rim of sun sink over the jagged edges of the city.

As sunsets went, this one was spectacular, crisp and cold and glowing. It gilded every high-rise and skyscraper with a Renaissance master's touch, finding bejeweled colors in the dull grey steel that Bruce knew Gotham architecture had never seen; delicate, rose-colored pinks, miasmous green soft as sunlight through a feather, startling oranges and blues like the skin of a poisonous frog. For a few brief moments, the filthy, crime-ridden city was lit up like a fireworks display.

The last, lingering fingers of daylight withdrew over the horizon, and Bruce felt the familiar stir of excitement in the pit of his stomach, something dark and heady and immutable waking up and unfurling its wings. Almost time to put aside this foolish mask and become himself. Only an hour more. Even the thought of Harley Quinn out waiting for him in the streets couldn't dampen the thrill of the hunt.

Turning away from the window, he noticed something out of place on the otherwise immaculate glass coffee table: a rather dog-eared little book that he definitely didn't remember putting there. A quick glance at the cover told him that it was a book of Aristotle's quotes and philosophy, and a second glance at the page it had been left open to informed him that, to his surprise, one of the quotes was highlighted.

"For as the eyes of bats are to the blaze of day, so is the reason in our soul to the things which are by nature most evident of all," he read aloud.

Huh. Odd choice.

The rather foxed - and possibly badgered and racooned, it was really quite beat up - little book puzzled him for a moment, but he shrugged it off. _Probably Jack's_, he thought, remembering the Jonathan Swift essay he'd found stacked messily on his dresser. Greek philosophy seemed a little out of character for him..._but then, so is knowing how to sew, and liking platypi, _Bruce thought wryly. Anyway, it must have been his; who else would know that a passage mentioning bats would be oh-so-very appropriate for Bruce Wayne?

The peculiarity of the book was driven out of his head by the arrival of the clown himself, strolling through the front door with a new Batman T-shirt and the usual red scarf covering his scars.

"Hiya, Bats," he grinned. "Miss me?"

Bruce did not reply, instead opting to give Jack a distinctly chilly look.

_**Now**__ he decides to show up..._

It was not a good sign, Jack thought, when Bat-boy didn't even comment on his freshly dyed 'What Would Batman Do?' shirt.

"Well, uh, what's wrong, Battycakes?" he drawled, dark eyes trained on his sometime-nemesis's pokerfaced features. _Not responding to Battycakes. Even worse sign._ "Why the long face?"

The unmasked Batman stared at him as though he'd just lapsed into a different language.

"What's _wrong_? You mean apart from the fact that I was dating a mobster, and your psychotic little henchgirl is still hanging around, and there's ruthless, mob-related company owner who's just _dying_ to know who you are? Where have you _been_ for the past four days?" he snarled.

"Oh, out n' about," Jack told him airily, waving a purple gloved hand. No need to elaborate, Brucey would probably find out about the rest soon enough. "Now, what, uh, what was that bit 'bout the sleazy corporate exec?"

"Now Shreck is becoming a major problem too," Bruce groaned. "He noticed us talking at that stupid party, and when we got caught in the hold-up last week he got really suspicious. Now he's trying to figure out who _you_ are. If I could just tie him to the Falcones and get him out of the way..."

_Really, that's all we need? Easy-peasy. And here you had me thinking it was something __**serious.**_

Jack made a snap decision.

"Wait here."

He took a few steps, glanced back to make sure that Batman wasn't moving, then darted out the door he'd just come in through. Bruce stared after him. _I swear, he just gets weirder and weirder._

He was back in a surprisingly short time, vaulting over the balcony rail (one of these days, Bruce was going to have to figure out how he did that) with something bulky tucked under one arm.

"Looks like a good time to give you your, ah, Christmas present early," Jack told him, stepping lightly through the door and tossing a bulging manila folder in his general direction. Bruce caught it easily and flicked it open. A moment later, his jaw was on its way to the floor.

"Where did you find this? I've been looking for proof of his mob dealings for months!"

It was all here. Receipts, records, signed documents…everything he needed to pin Shreck solidly to the Falcones and get him, if not imprisoned, at the very least investigated, convicted, fined, and completely distracted.

"The next time," Jack informed him, grinning too widely, "ya need mob records, try checking the basement of their, uh, _secret_ hidey-hole on Sixth. It's where they keep all the stuff they can use as _blackmail_."

Bruce barely nodded, too busy shuffling through the stack of documents. Then an idea struck. _If we could use this to deal with __**that**__ little complication too..._

"D'you think," he asked, glancing up at Jack, "that there's anything there we could use to get rid of Beatrix?" The clown grinned in response.

"Only, uh, one way to find out!"

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It was less than ten minutes later when Bruce was ready to set out, but he felt completely different. That was nothing unusual. Being Batman was not like being Bruce Wayne; as soon as he put on the cowl, he could feel himself shifting into a world devoid of nuance, a world stripped down to fight or be killed, guilty or innocent, friend or enemy. There was no room for subtlety as Batman.

That didn't surprise him, he thought, checking over his equipment while he waited for Joker to finish getting ready. No, what surprised him was his own reaction when the Joker stepped through the bathroom door, eyes ringed with black and painted scars curved into what passed for a friendly smile.

Hatred.

The sheer force of the emotion stunned him. Bruce Wayne might reluctantly enjoy Jack's company, but Batman still _loathed_ the Joker, and persisted in viewing the relationship as a case of keeping friends close and enemies closer.

It had been days, he realized, since Batman and the Joker had last taken to the streets together. They'd been Jack and Bruce for so long now, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be fighting the clown.

Batman had not.

Suddenly, every little quirk and habit of the Joker's that Bruce had grown accustomed to - the nasally twang, the lip-licking, the way he had of tilting his head or quirking his eyebrows - grated at his nerves and set his teeth on edge. This was the Joker, who had blown his city half to hell and destroyed Gotham's chance at rebuilding itself. This was the Joker, who'd killed his oldest and dearest friend just to prove a point. Batman should _not_ be out patrolling with him, mob records be damned; he should be beating him unconscious and leaving him cuffed to a pipe outside the MCU!

"Something, uh, _wrong,_ Bat-brat?" Joker drawled, seeing the way his sometime-boyfriend's hands had balled into fists. Batman shook his head. He didn't trust himself to speak; it was taking all of his self-control not to start throwing punches.

"Well, c'mon then!"

Batman nodded stiffly, and allowed the Joker to lead the way over the edge of the balcony and into the night.

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Loathing.  
Unadulterated loathing.  
For your face,  
Your voice,  
Your clothing;  
Let's just say - I loathe it all.  
Every little trait, however small,  
Makes my very flesh begin to crawl,  
With simple utter loathing.

~ _What Is This Feeling?_, **Wicked**

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_**A/N:**__ Batman __**really**__ doesn't like the Joker._

_Candy Walker is borrowed from the 1989 Batman movie - she's one of the models the Joker kills with the chemical Smilex._

_Bruce's rant on Max Shreck is borrowed mostly from the Tim Burton Batman movies._

_In TDK, the couple in Bruce's bed when the Joker showed up kind of freaked me out. I mean, talk about invasion of personal space._

_The art museum Bruce is at is based on my campus art museum, just larger. I really lucked out; my university has two portraits by one of my very favorite artists, Ivan Albright, and an artist-made bronze miniature of my second-favorite sculpture ever. Needless to say, I spend a lot of time there._

_Those who are familiar with Aristotle in the Batverse should be getting an idea of where this will eventually be headed - it's hinted at in chapter 9._

_Thanks for reading!_


	30. An App For That

_**A/N: **__Hello hello!_

_So a few weeks ago, my roommates and I went to Target to pick up groceries...only to find a cache of Batman paraphernalia in the dollar bins, right out front. Suffice to say, our fridge is now covered with Joker and Riddler magnets, there are a handful of Batman and Robin notebooks and coloring books scattered about the bookshelves, and I am wearing my new Batman socks with pride. Nerds rock!_

_Interestingly, a few days after our grocery run, I found a plastic Two-Face coin on a train platform. I have no idea how it got there. My crazy-awesome writer roommate appropriated it, and now uses it to make all her decisions. Which is awesome, but a little unsettling. I told her that if she started robbing banks or mysteriously got caught in a fire, my first acts would be to find the biggest sledgehammer I could lift, raid the local zoo for hyenas, and improvise a Batsignal on the dorm belltower. She laughed, and flipped to see whether she should go with me to the zoo or keep studying. My life is insanity, in the best possible way._

_Anyways, read, review, and mostly, enjoy!_

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Your slaps don't stick,  
Your kicks don't hit,  
So we remain the same.  
Blood sticks, sweat drips,  
Break the lock if it don't fit.  
A kick in the teeth is good for some -  
A kiss with a fist is better than none.

~ Florence + The Machine_, Kiss with a Fist_

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_Control_, Ra's al Ghul had taught him, _control was essential, particularly over yourself. You must be able to react immediately in any situation, without regards to sentiment or emotion. Your life will depend on this._

_Easier said than done,_ Batman thought grudgingly, swinging himself down the last ten feet of a dangling, corroded fire escape. He wondered if his mentor had ever had to put up with anything like being led into enemy territory by a half-mad clown who may or may not be the single most despicable person currently on the planet. Somehow, he didn't think so.

It was easier, once they were out in the open air, slipping through alleys and darting over fire escapes, and he could focus on _what_ he was doing rather than _who_ he was doing it with. The feeling of revulsion did not fade though; whatever grudgingly earned affection Bruce Wayne had for the clown, Batman shared none of it.

By contrast, Joker couldn't be happier. Out at night, in one of the most dangerous cities in the country, in the company of a wanted criminal, heading into the headquarters of a group that wanted him dead, he was in his element. For him, every Dumpster and tenement and tar-paper rooftop was nothing more than another fun toy in his personal, depraved playground.

_This is the life,_ the clown thought, launching himself over a rooftop gap to land next to the silent Dark Knight.

He'd almost forgotten how amazing this felt, this cocktail drug rush of being around Batman. His perfect playmate. Euphoria, rage, lust, sheer and wild -everything he felt around Bruce, but magnified, a thousand times over, like a lens focusing the sun into one infinitesimal, blazing spot, on the brink of combusting. God, it was like a swig of straight vodka after weeks of sipping watered wine, burning through his veins. The best drug in the world. It was everything Bruce was, but better, so much better.

Except...

It wasn't _quite_. Inexplicably, he found himself reaching for an emotion he had felt less than hour before, but didn't have now, lingering somewhere between worry and passion...

Joker shrugged it off as insignificant. He had Batman, and a mob to bring down, and a night full of fun ahead of him. Anything else, including silly emotions, could wait.

The strange pair slipped past a final pair of overturned trash cans and into the alley next to the mob headquarters without encountering anything more threatening than the usual array of panhandlers, pimps, and prostitutes that haunted Gotham at night. If he hadn't known it was the mob's cache of blackmail and potentially sensitive records, Batman thought, giving the unassuming brick facade a cursory once-over, he would've gone right over it. Had, in fact, walked past it several times, in both disguises. Falcone's men were clearly beginning to pick up on the art of subtlety and working under the radar, after years of never needing to. He had to finish taking out the mob, and soon.

For right now though, he needed Beatrix off his back, and there might be a solution here. He pulled a small lock-pick out of his ever-handy belt - only to find the Joker already at work on the door, a slim-bladed penknife in his gloved hands.

"Ta-da," the jester from hell declared with no small satisfaction as the access door clicked readily open. "Admit it, Batsy, I really am a, uh, pretty handy guy to have around. Not such a bad partner, _hmmmmmmm_?"

"Don't push it, clown," the Dark Knight gritted, stalking past him into the building.

Batman paused just inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness. Slowly, stainless-steel counters and racks heavy with pots and pans began to materialize in the gloom. He could just make out a pair of heavy swinging doors past a large double-sink. The building had clearly been a restaurant at some point, maybe another mob-front business. Judging by the thin slick of dust on the metal implements, it hadn't been used for some months, but the white-tiled floor, Batman noticed, was muddied and dirty, not dusty; people came through here regularly.

Any other information he might have gleaned was lost as the Joker shoved him inside, muttering, "C'mon Batsy, rude to block the door, y'know."

"Quiet," Batman growled, clamping a Kevlar-clad hand over the clown's mouth. The Joker rolled his eyes, and swatted the vigilante's hand away.

"No need," he informed the irate Batman snidely. "All the guards are, ah, downstairs, and prob'ly a couple sheets to the wind by now. I oughta know, I've been here before - ya coulda just _asked,_ sweetheart."

Batman's lip curled at the endearment, but he followed the Clown Prince, silent as a shadow, through the kitchen to a small access door tucked inside the turned-off walk-in freezer. At the sight of the claustrophobically small stairway behind it though, Batman felt the hair along the nape if his neck stand on end.

"How the hell did you even find this?" he growled, voice barely a tone above silence. No telling what was down there...

"Oh, it was easy," the Joker chuckled. His voice was only just above conversational, but in the dim silence, it rang like a cathedral bell, echoing off the hanging pots. Batman fought the urge to clamp a hand over his mouth. "Amazin' what a coupla knives in the right place'll _persuaaade_ someone to tell ya..."

Catching sight of the grim, stern line that his companion's mouth had become, Joker sighed irritably, blowing a wisp of olive-tinged hair out of his face.

"Really, will ya chill, Bats?" he grumbled, tripping down the narrow steps. The Dark Knight followed him only reluctantly. "They're still alive. I may, ah, _improvise_ when the opportunity presents itself, but I'm not _stupid_, I do check stuff out beforehand..."

The clown's foot hit a creaky step, and Batman found himself with a razor-edged batarang in his hand, poised to throw.

Every instinct was telling him to stick to the shadows, be silent, be unseen, lessons pounded into him by his years in the League of Shadows; it was taking every ounce of his not inconsiderable self-control to follow the suicidal clown farther down the stairs instead of simply melting back into the gloom and waiting. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the staircase ended. Peering around the crumbling doorjamb, Batman could make out a cavernous concrete room occupied by a stack of warping cardboard boxes, a battered Formica table, and three men, two of whom appeared to be at least moderately drunk, judging by the handful of brown bottles scattered around. The third was cleaning a lethal-looking gun with an expression of extreme boredom.

"I'll take care of those two," Joker muttered, "an' you get the one with the gun. Ready? Aaaaand, go!"

Before Batman could so much as open his mouth, the clown had thrown himself out from behind the wall, a knife in each hand, laughing hysterically. For a moment, Batman was frozen, watching the scene before him. Then he saw the muzzle of the gun come up, and reacted on instinct, a batarang drawing a bloody line on the man's leg and two Kevlar-gloved fists colliding solidly with his temples. It was unlikely the man even saw what hit him before he was out cold, Batman plucking the gun from his limp hand.

The Dark Knight pried the bullet clip out of the sleek steel handgun with an expression of distaste, throwing into a far corner of the room before stripping the gun and scattering the pieces. It was then that he remembered the Joker.

He whipped around to see the other two guards lying face down in a puddle of blood. One still had a switchblade in his shoulder.

"Joker..." Batman growled, stooping to check their vitals. That was a lot of blood.

"Oh, they'll live," the clown said dismissively, not looking up from where he was already pawing through a stack of folders. "Might not _wanna_, when they, uh, wake up in the morning, but they'll live."

Batman felt his hackles rise, but bit back the snarled curses he longed to throw at the demonic clown and contented himself with yanking a cardboard box closer, rifling through its contents with rather more violence than necessary. At least this place had good acoustics, he thought, silently noting the way every scrape and shuffle of paper echoed in the cavernous room. It was a minor miracle that they hadn't been heard coming down the stairs. Damn clown.

Three quarters of an hour's search turned up a lot of decades-old building leases, a handful of fake immigration papers dated from the 60s, and a few interesting documents on Arkham that Batman made a silent note to come back for. Nothing on Beatrix though.

"Hey, uh, here's somethin'!" he heard the Joker call, just as he was debating whether to switch to a different pile. Batman slipped over, silent as a shadow, his abject hatred of the clown temporarily forgotten.

The Joker, it seemed, had struck gold. The Dark Knight could see several fairly recent memos and a contract, as well as a handful of older letters, proving that Beatrix was definitely party to illegal goings-on. And, most promising of all - Batman couldn't quite stop his eyes from lighting up when he saw it - a heavy black videotape conveniently labeled _Shreck store Nov. 20 _that Joker had pulled out of the same box. If he could tie Beatrix into the same ring of corruption as Shreck, he could bring down two metaphorical and extremely dangerous birds with one well-placed stone.

"So, uh, what's our next step?" the clown yawned, cracking his neck. Batman frowned, and yanked the precious tape and the papers out of the Joker's purple-gloved hands. It was only after he'd checked that they were all still there that he spoke.

"Right," he growled. The Joker had, of course, been making comments about his relapse into monosyllables, but it kept him from saying anything he'd regret as Bruce Wayne. The goddamn clown would have to deal. "Now we head back, find out what we have."

"Race ya there," the Joker grinned, and before Batman could reply, he'd taken off, leather shoes pounding and yellowing papers eddying in his wake. Batman snarled, and sprang up the stair after him, the sheaf of papers clutched in one gauntleted hand. Fucking maniac needed a leash. Or a shock collar, maybe.

He reached the top of the flight to see the Joker paused by the heavy fire door, wild laughter flaring like sparks in his eyes. As soon as he was sure Batman was following, he launched himself out the door, hysterical hilarity bubbling up through his chest. Mustn't get too far ahead, no points for losing his Dark Knight - go straight to jail, do not collect two hundred dollars, do not pass Go. The thought made him laugh even harder, grimy brick walls flashing past him and the low, furious panting of the caped crusader never far behind.

Yep, this was the way to go. Batman was _sooooo _much more fun than Bruce was. Bruce Wayne. What a joke! And not even the good kind.

Realizing Batman's identity was like finding out Charlie Sheen spent his time sneaking off to Africa to educate people about HIV - insane, unbelievable, _stupid_. He hadn't wanted to know - the realization had snuck up on him, ambushing him in his padded cell while he was busy contemplating that Dawes bitch and her moronic friend, who had run from his own party at the first hint of danger. And when he _had_ realized, he had tried his best to beat that knowledge out of his mind - a stunt that had earned him a minor concussion, a week in the Arkham infirmary, and a new round of cripplingly painful and useless sedatives that did nothing to blunt the appalling realization. Batman, his Batman, was a symbol, immortal and immovable and perfect. He wasn't _supposed_ to be human. And he especially was not supposed to be a person like _that. _When his idol, his Dark Knight, the man behind the mask, could be an idiot like Bruce Wayne, then what was the point of going on?

But now he had his Batman back! And if Batman hated him, if he could see the loathing etched in every line of his face, - his true face, horned and black - if he could see the way Batman's hands twitched toward his utility belt, itching to cuff him and dump him at the police station...then so what? He didn't need Batman to love him, just pay attention to him. He'd take whatever he could get. And as long as he still got his Batman, then having Bruce around too was tolerable.

He leapt over a half-fallen dumpster, agile as a cat, and heard a faint hiss from the roof to his left. His silent and surly escort. Yep, this was definitely the life.

The clown danced and dodged his way through the winding city, fleet as an urban fox, his silent, grim shadow tailing him from the rooftops. For a moment, Batman was reminded of another time he'd chased after a cackling Joker, this time through a crumbling carnival, with no paint or masks to hide their faces... He shoved that thought down. That memory belonged to Bruce, to another life. That was not Batman.

The threat of running into Harley Quinn had been lurking in the back of Batman's mind all evening, but they made it back to the penthouse without encountering anything but a couple stray cats.

Batman was certainly _not_ about to show the Joker his underground bunker or his penthouse panic room, but he did cede to caution enough to trust him with the hidden elevator that ran from a conveniently camera-less corner of the garage to a hidden door in the penthouse. He did, after all, have plenty of cameras in the elevator itself, he consoled himself, and he could always lock it down remotely from his laptop if the clown tried anything.

They made it to the top floor without incident, but it wasn't until they were safely sequestered in an inside room that Batman allowed himself to relax. Once he was sure they hadn't been followed and the grandiose apartment was secure, he took a deep breath, and allowed the tension of Batman to ease away. In a moment, he was Bruce again.

Pulling the heavy black cowl off, he allowed himself to finally feel the euphoria of what the pair of them had accomplished. They now had a way to get rid of Beatrix and Max Shreck; all that was left was Harley Quinn, and his life could go back to comparatively normal.

Joker, apparently, felt the same.

"Not half bad, eh Batsy?" he cackled over Bruce's left shoulder. "Not for, uh, a bat n' a clown, anyway!"

"Not bad at all," Bruce grudgingly admitted. "Now we just need to decide how best to use it..."

"Oh, there's no 'we' to this part, Bat-Brat," Joker told him lightly, playing with the discarded Batman cowl as though it were a hand puppet. "I helped ya _get_ the stuff, now _you_ gotta figure out whatcha gonna do with it." He paused a moment to adjust the heavy cowl so that it was sitting squarely in his palm, muttered, "Alas! Poor Yorick," and giggled insanely.

"What do you mean?" the young billionaire asked, suspicion edging his voice. He should have known something like this would happen, it was never that easy with the Joker... "You're part of this too you know."

"Nope," Joker chuckled. "I'm headin' out. See ya, Batsy."

"Hey, stay here!" Bruce snapped, snatching at him. "We need to figure this out, and...where are you going?"

Joker danced out of Bruce's reach, laughing wide enough to show his yellowed teeth.

"Oh, here an' there. I'll be back when I feel like it," he laughed, waving off Bruce's protests. "See ya soon, Bats!"

Bruce watched him sashay his way out the door, irritation heavy on his face. The fact that the Joker was calling the shots bothered him rather a lot; he had begun this twisted relationship to try and exert some control over the clown, so if the clown was refusing to let himself be controlled or influenced, then really, what was the point? Well, apart from the company, anyway...

On the plus side, he thought, beginning to strip off the rest of the Batman armor, he now knew what he was getting Jack for Christmas.

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It was almost evening of the next day before Jack finally made his way back to the penthouse. Brucey, he knew, would be annoyed, but that was okay; Brucey-bat was always annoyed about something or other. _He really oughta lighten up,_ Jack thought disparagingly, _kid keeps going that way, he'll die of stress at 40._ Although it wasn't really stress-related illnesses that most concerned him right now; that distinction would have to go to the fun little problem he'd been occupied with all day. Namely, a certain renegade henchwench.

Batman had counted himself lucky, Jack knew, not to have run into Harley the past few nights, but just because she wasn't out and about didn't mean that she wasn't planning something. And while he'd managed to pinpoint roughly _when_ that something would be (too close for comfort), by talking to Lewis and doing a little surveillance work on her apartment, he still wasn't completely sure _what_ it would be. Which bothered him more than he liked to admit. Harley was by no means stupid; she was learning the ropes of this game very quickly, and her one real disadvantage was her obsession with the Joker - her Puddin.' Which he was having a surprisingly hard time turning to his benefit; during the past week, she had been increasingly difficult to track, and when he did find her, no matter how he wheedled, she flatly refused to tell him anything about her plans, just giggled and told him, "oh, you'll see, you'll love it!"

Harley, he had come to realize, had tricks. A few she had picked up from him - like the kazoo and scotch tape thing - but most of them she'd come up with on her own. Her favorite, the one with the rusty cheese grater and the stapler, still had a few flaws – it was hard to get someone to sit still that long, for one thing – but you had to allow a little room for error. She was still learning. She'd get it eventually. He was just concerned that it was Bats she'd be practicing on.

He just couldn't let Harley get his Bat. It was more than just not wanting his newest toy to be broken so soon; he honestly didn't want her to damage him. It kind of annoyed him. Not wanting his other half to end up broken and bleeding was one thing; actually _caring_ was another matter entirely. He made a mental note to shut down that particular emotion as soon as this little problem was over.

In the meantime, it looked like Bruce was trying to talk to him.

"Huh?" Jack asked, with all of his usual tact.

"I was asking what you've been up to," Bruce told him exasperatedly. "Has Harley Quinn been harassing you, or...?"

"Awwww, aren't you mister Boy Scout," Jack yawned, stretching so far the young billionaire could hear his back crack from across the room. "Worried 'bout lil' ol' me. Nah, haven't seen 'er." Not to say he hadn't heard from her, but Brucey didn't need to know that.

"Was never in Boy Scouts, actually," Bruce told him. He'd attended exactly one meeting before dropping out of the local troupe. Alfred had been disappointed, but unsurprised. Bruce had also quit soccer, basketball, movie club, and swim team in quick succession.

"Reaaaaaally?" the clown smirked. "Seems like, uh, your kinda thing. Bein' prepared, a solution for everything, all that shit."

"Was never much of a 'team spirit' kind of guy," Bruce muttered. "Was always a pretty quiet kid. Even before my parents were killed, only people my age I actually talked to were Rachel and Tommy."

"Tahhhhhhhmmy?" Jack drawled, curiosity blending with the derision in his voice. Bruce shrugged.

"He was a friend from school," the young billionaire explained offhandedly. "We were inseparable for a couple years, but we had a falling-out a little before my parents died."

"What, uh, what happened?"

There was definitely more curiosity in his voice now than ridicule. Bruce decided to take it as a positive sign.

"His parents got into a car accident one night," the unmasked Batman explained. "My dad was the attending physician, and he managed to save Tommy's mother, but his father died." Bruce lapsed into silence, lost in the memories of a night more than twenty years earlier. Thomas had been over for the boys' usual round of Stratego; Tommy had been much better at it than Bruce, but last time Bruce had forced a tie, something his nine-year-old self had been tremendously proud of. Rachel thought it was silly, but that was okay. Bruce did other things with her, playing tag and climbing trees and reading. Stratego was what he did with Tommy. They'd played round after round as night fell fast as the rain outside the window, excited that Tommy's parents were late showing up; they were usually so prompt. It wasn't until Thomas Wayne's terse call from the hospital that they knew something was wrong, and suddenly, the evening wasn't fun anymore, was scary and packed with shadows that lurked in the corners of the room, waiting for a single word to call them into roaring, screaming life. They'd tried to keep playing, but both of them were so distracted they kept making baby mistakes, beginner's mistakes; eventually, they just gave up. Bruce remembered his mother watching over them, reassuring Tommy as best she could, jumping up every few minutes to check the phone, even though they all knew it hadn't rung, and Bruce telling Tommy over and over, 'My dad is with them, everything will be okay, I promise,' and believing it, implicitly. As far as Bruce had been concerned, Thomas Wayne was a superhero, and as long as he was there, nothing bad could possibly happen. The shadows would stay at the edges of the room. Then the phone had finally rung. Martha had leapt up to answer it, listening for only a moment before enfolding Thomas in a tight hug and whispering, 'Oh Tommy, I'm so sorry,' and Tommy turned to Bruce, hazel eyes blazing, and screamed, 'You _promised_! You promised everything would be okay!' Bruce had stood there, stunned and silent, until he felt Alfred's hand on his shoulder, an anchor in a world suddenly spinning out of control. "Thomas never forgave me for that," he muttered. "Me or my dad. Then my parents were killed, only a few months later, and there was nothing else to say. He moved to Boston not long after. Last I heard, he was studying medicine."

Jack was silent for a few moments. He couldn't remember much of his life before becoming Joker, and of the scattered shrapnel-shard memories he still had, none featured anyone he might be tempted to label a friend. The idea of having someone who cared about you, and who you cared about you in return, was a foreign one; Bruce was as close as he had ever gotten, and he wasn't fool enough to think that this was anything besides a way for Batman to track the clown, despite what it felt like, or what either of them told themselves. It was a strange idea, liking someone, caring about them, giving them your time and your trust, without wanting anything out of it in return. Everyone wanted _something_. The Arkham doctors wanted him to cooperate and be 'cured' so that they could be famous; Harley wanted him to be her boy-toy, her doting knight; Bruce just wanted him to stop blowing things up. Everyone always wanted something. That was just how things worked. Even with Rachel, Bruce had wanted her to marry him, help him pretend to be normal; he wanted something from her. When Bruce talked about Tommy though, there was a tone to his voice that Jack couldn't quite place: deeper and cleaner than regret, and more resolute than simple wistfulness. When he talked about Tommy, it hadn't sounded like he was after anything; it had sounded like Bruce just enjoyed his company for its own sake, and regretted losing it not because he thought it might be useful later, but because he just liked being around Thomas. Almost...altruistic. What a weird concept, this idea of _friends_.

_If everyone wants something though, what do I want from Bruce?_ he thought abruptly. A few weeks ago, the answer would've been _to corrupt Batman, _but now, he wasn't sure that was true anymore. If he finally succeeded, if he brought Batman over to his side or forced him to kill someone, then the Dark Knight would have failed and he would have won. And the game would be over. He wasn't sure he wanted it to be over. This peculiar relationship had begun as a way of getting closer to Batman, of toying with him, but more and more, Jack found himself just enjoying it, looking forward to their time together simply for the sake of being around Bruce. Batman was still far and away the more interesting of the two, his perfect playfellow, but Bruce Wayne wasn't nearly as boring as he'd thought. _Do I actually want to be __**friends**__ with him? _he wondered. This wasn't something Jack had any experience at all in; this was foreign ground, laced with minefields.

Time to change the subject.

"Hey, uh, what day is it?" Jack asked abruptly. Bruce had a sudden flashback to the interrogation room, the night Rachel had died. _The flat glow of the lamp in the one-way mirror, while a cold, nasally voice hissed,_ '_What's the time?'_

"It's Wednesday," he said finally, ignoring with some difficulty the chills tracing their way down the curve of his spine. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason," Jack grinned. Bruce didn't quite believe him. "Just, ah, tryin' to decide if I feel like comin' on _patrolllllll_ with ya tomorrow."

He was lying; Bruce could tell. Whatever reason he'd wanted to know the day for, that wasn't it. Bruce thought, briefly, about forcing the clown to tell him why he'd wanted to know, but decided against it. _Play it cool. _With a little luck, he'd get his answers anyway. At the very least, this should help him keep tabs on the clown...

"Well, if you do decide to come with me tomorrow," Bruce told him, tone carefully light, "you'll need a way to get in touch, won't you? Here."

And from an inner pocket of his suit coat, he pulled out two slick little cell phones.

"Figured I might as well give you your Christmas present early too," Bruce told him lightly, holding out one of the sleek little devices. Jack took it with the expression of a child whose first reaction, on being handed a priceless gem, was, _oooooh, shiny,_ and whose second reaction was to wonder how hard he'd have to throw it to make it smash.

Bruce was quite proud of the job he'd done on the twin phones. He'd started with a pair of basic test cell phones borrowed from the R&D Department...and then he'd gone to town on them. Bruce liked working with his hands, and a completely untraceable phone was the kind of challenge he could really lose himself in. He'd spent most of the day in the lab, adding security feature after security feature, helped along occasionally by a handful of amused programmers. They'd probably thought it was a playboy's excessive and largely useless gift to some giggling beau; _and in a way, _Bruce had reflected, _they were right._ He'd finally declared himself satisfied with the level of security in the phones, and as a finishing touch, had stripped the casings and airbrushed the accents - matte black for his phone, a metallic lime green for Jack's. He wondered if Jack would notice. He'd been rather proud of that.

Already, he could tell that Jack liked the phone; the way he handled it, turning it over and over in his hands, told Bruce just how interested he was in his new toy. He caught sight of the green accents and grinned, eyes crinkling and scars scrunched up in what Bruce now recognized as a rare, true smile, so very different from his usual wide, insane grins.

"Very nice, ah, choice of color," he commented, pressing down on the tough plastic casing with a calloused thumb. "Classy. You do know how to spoil a gal, Batsy."

"Well, it's not exactly leverage on the mob, but I do what I can," Bruce smirked, earning him a wicked grin from Jack.

"I'm guessin' there's some sorta super-shmancy, uh, security stuff?" the unmasked Joker asked casually, the pads of his fingers tapping against the phone casing, itching to tease out its secrets. Bruce allowed himself a very slightly smug smile.

"Yep. For a start, I encrypted it so that it can make outgoing calls, but it can only _receive_ calls from my phone. It's also password encrypted, and rerouted through a proxy website, so it's almost completely untrac..."

"Does it have Tetris?" Jack interrupted. Bruce was temporarily at a loss.

"..._what_?"

"Does it _have_," Jack asked again, waving the phone, "Tetris?"

"...No, it doesn't have Tetris!" Bruce exclaimed, finding his voice. "I made it to be untraceable, not to play games!"

"It's no good if I can't play Tetris." There was no mistaking the dismissive tone of the clown's voice. Bruce growled.

"Fine," he sighed, yanking the phone out of Jack's unresisting hands, "I'll try to find a way to download games for you." Jack's face instantly split into a broad, happy grin, made somehow disturbing by the scars.

"You're the best, Bats!"

_Damn clown,_ he thought irritably, as the aforementioned clown gave him a tight hug a sloppy kiss on the cheek. And then, with considerably more affection as Jack waved and vanished out the door, _damn clown._

Of all things, Tetris.

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Evey: Is everything a joke to you?

Gordon:Only the things that matter.

~ V for Vendetta

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_**A/N:**__ Joker really isn't very good with emotions. Even (especially) his own._

_Yorick is borrowed from Hamlet, specifically the gravedigger scene. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, look it up, it's quite an epic bit of literature._

_The bit about the cheese grater and the stapler is from one of the comics, can't remember which one._

_It mentions somewhere in the comics that Bruce was never in Boy Scouts._

_Rerouting calls through a proxy website __**is**__ a way of masking their call signature and making them largely untraceable, but you'd need more than that to make it foolproof. I got the complete explanation from a friend of mine who deals in cell phone security, but in the interest of keeping this story readily accessible to people who don't have a Master's in electronics (myself being one of them), I decided it might be best to have Jack interrupt Bruce's full explanation._

_Their Tetris discussion sprang from a conversation with one of my best friends, Rachel, who has served as my muse on many an occasion. On the slim chance I end up actually professionally publishing anything, it'll be dedicated to her. The woman's a genius. It does mean that discussing Rachel Dawes's death with her is vaguely awkward though, and hearing Rachel talk about how much she hates Rachel is enough to give a Surrealist whiplash._

_Thank you, thank you, to everyone who reviewed. I hope this will suffice, ToLazyToLogin. =) Thanks for the kick in the pants, I needed it._

_Please review, it takes only a few seconds and warms my chilly Chicago day. Thanks for reading!_


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